


The Mighty Fall

by plaguedbynargles



Series: Thanks for the Memories [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Fluff, M/M, NSFW, Post Reichenbach, Torture, dark!Sherlock, jim's backstory, ugh i can't spoil it just read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:14:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 39,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1491289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaguedbynargles/pseuds/plaguedbynargles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty is ready to rid the world of Sherlock Holmes once and for all, but is captured by the detective and John Watson before he can execute his plan. The two men are desperate to prove that "Moriarty is real" and need a confession to clear Sherlock's name. Things get complicated, however, when Jim has a strange dream about Sherlock. Post Reichenbach. Sheriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enemies

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone. So this is a post Reichenbach fic with both Sherlock and Moriarty alive. Will be a new song for each chapter. The first few songs aren’t the best, but I promise as the plot thickens they get better. There will be torture and smut, though I promise there’s no rape. I promise it’s certainly not the most adult thing on this website. I wrote this before series 3 was out, so while some things are parallel, there will be some divergence from canon. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes. All I own here are the unique situations I create for the characters. They themselves and the universe they belong to are not mine (unfortunately).

_“It’s a cold, cruel, harsh, reality_

_Caught, stuck, here with your enemies.”_

_-Shinedown_

 

               Sherlock hadn’t wanted to believe it. He was actually, for once, ready for this case to be over; if you could even call it a ‘case’. He had been hoping to be wrong, doubtful as that was.

               There. Another one. This time a knight. The detective had been following a trail of chess pieces on his way home to 221B, and for once, he was happy that John wasn’t with him.

               There was only one person he knew who had the personality to do this.

               It was improbable, but not impossible. This _was_ Moriarty. Why would someone as egocentric as Jim kill themselves right before all of their plans fell into place? Why wouldn’t he wait to see if Sherlock really _did_ jump? He would have wanted to see Sherlock’s corpse, lying on the pavement, just to be sure.

               It was rather frustrating. Of course, all the signs pointed to the conclusion that the criminal was alive, but Sherlock had no idea how he could have possibly faked his death. However, if Sherlock had done it, what made it so hard for Jim? He was, unfortunately, intelligent enough, and it would have ensured that Sherlock would jump.

               _No matter_ , he mused. _How_ Jim did it was the least of his worries. This was going to get messy, and Sherlock was determined for this to be the last time it did. The detective picked up another chess piece. A pawn, he noted with smugly. For three months, he had fooled James Moriarty. Three months he had been the best. He would very much like to extend that time period indefinitely.

               As Sherlock studied the chess piece, he remembered Moriarty’s sadistic smile, his cold eyes, his obsessive behavior, his superiority complex. There was no doubt about it, he realized, the consulting criminal lived, and he had a plan. It was good, then, that Sherlock had his own.

*************************************************************************************

               “Keep her quiet.”

               The buff man tightened his grip on a blindfolded, terrified Mrs. Hudson.

               “And make sure to keep the blindfold on.”

               A polite nod from the mountain of a man, and he and his commander went their separate ways, the thug taking Mrs. Hudson to a back room, and the other beginning the almost familiar climb up the stairs. He caught himself feeling almost sentimental. The end of the fairytale. He was going to be so _bored_ once this was over.

               He really should have expected Sherlock wouldn’t kill himself. He may be a bit more loveable than Jim, but he still was a bit too selfish to give up everything just to save someone as painfully ordinary as John. It was quite a shame. The fall was a bit more… grand than a simple murder out of sight of the public. _Ah, well_ … he thought. At least he still got to do it. Luckily, Sherlock had told minimal people about his survival. His reputation remained trashed, and it would still be quite simple for Jim to finish what he had started.

               As Jim opened the door into 221B, he recognized the smell of old books, dust, and… was that chloroform?

               Before his quick mind could react, the edges of Jim Moriarty’s vision were clouding with fuzzy black, and it was all he could do to call out “Marcus!” to his henchman before he succumbed to the inky blackness.

***********************************************************************************

               “Sherlock.”

               “Not now, John.”

               “Sherlock.”

               “I just said, not now. This is about to boil…”

               “Will you listen, you great prat! He’s waking up!”

               That captured Sherlock’s attention. He abandoned the experiment he was working on and rushed over to where Moriarty was tied up. The consulting criminal groaned.

               “Sherly, is that you?” he asked in a breathy voice. He slowly opened his eyes, and was quickly met with a slap across the face.

               “Sherlock!” John was a little shocked at the display of violence from his friend.

               The detective only glared in response. They had the world’s most dangerous serial killer tied to a chair, finally vulnerable, and John was going to defend him? He didn’t understand how _anyone_ could rationalize that he didn’t deserve to be slapped.

               John paused for a moment, his train of thoughts going in the same direction as Sherlock’s. He considered the now almost fully awake criminal, who looked expectant.

               “I think this is more appropriate,” John said calmly. Without hesitation, he marched up to Moriarty and punched him in the face. It earned a small grunt from the man, and John, satisfied, retreated back to where Sherlock stood. If Jim’s back hadn’t been up against the wall, the force of the blow would have sent him falling backwards.

               Jim grinned at Sherlock, almost seductively.

               “Honey, I hope that was worth it, because in about five minutes you’re going to be-”

               “Skinned?” Sherlock offered, “Burned?”

               Moriarty was still grinning, “I was thinking more along the lines of-”

               “Castrated?” John chimed in, “Forced to eat each other’s flesh baked in cupcakes?”

               “Oooh, creative Johnny boy,” it was hard to tell if he was being sarcastic or not, “I didn’t know you could be so dark. I’ll have to use those…”

               “You won’t be. Ever.” Sherlock casually walked towards the captive man.

               “Don’t be so _stupid_ , Sherlock,” Jim scolded, “In about… hmm… 2.6 minutes our situations will be reversed. Then who’ll be the daddy?”

               “I still will be,” Sherlock was enjoying this, “want to know why?”

               “Do tell,” Jim looked slightly less amused, where was Marcus? He was sure he had yelled loud enough before he had gone under…

               “Because for the past 3 days, the men who you thought you were planning this whole ambush with, were working for me,” Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket, “They’ve told me all of your plans, and exactly how to avoid them.”

               “You’re lying.” Jim’s voice had lost its playful tone. “No one can match their salary.”

               “Well apparently,” Sherlock went into his text messages on his phone, “I can.” He turned the screen towards Moriarty, watching his expression change from apprehension, to disbelief, to something outright murderous.

               “You’ve been a very bad boy, haven’t you Sherly?” his dark eyes looked up at the detective, “Someone should discipline you. Let me guess: you didn’t tell Mrs. Hudson about this, so her reaction would be realistic?”

               “Naturally,” Sherlock replied casually.

               There was a short silence, and Jim found that for once, he actually had been outsmarted. He couldn’t believe this. His web had been watertight. How on Earth had a fly like Sherlock gotten in and escaped?

               “You’re going to confess what you did.” John broke the silence.

               “What are you going to do?” Jim laughed, “Are you going to torture me, Johnny? Can your poor old soldier’s heart take it? I can see the headlines now: children’s actor is held captive by fraud detective and accomplice, tortured for months…”

               “That’s not going to happen,” John interjected, “Because you’re going to confess.” The authority in his voice was intimidating, and Jim, who was feeling uncomfortably vulnerable at this point, really wished he had chosen better henchmen for this job.

               “I don’t think so, honey,” Jim looked at John with mock puppy dog eyes, “You see, I’m ever so stubborn…”

               “It may take longer for you,” Sherlock said ominously, “But we will break you. We are going to burn the heart out of you, and no one is coming to save you.”

               “Be a little more creative, Sherly. Is it really that hard to come up with your own lines?”

               Underneath this statement, however, Jim’s mind was working a mile a minute. If Sherlock had figured out how to bribe his officials, what else did he know? And if this took too long, how was he going to explain why everyone’s paycheck was late? His pyramid would crumble. He hoped that Sebastian could keep everything running. As of now, however, the only thing to help his situation was…

               He must not confess.


	2. My Songs Know What You Did In the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for torture

_“I've got the scars from tomorrow and I wish you could see_

_That you’re the antidote to everything except for me” –Fall Out Boy_

               10 days.

               They had been trying for ten days to get something, _anything_ out of Moriarty, and they had failed. Both John and Sherlock were completely exhausted; they had needed to sleep in shifts, and Moriarty was doing his best to break them before they did him.

               Sherlock was trying his best not to show his frustration or anger, but as he was only human, he really couldn’t do much about it. Both men had known that Jim would be hard to break, as he didn’t have the psyche of a normal man, but thinking and doing are completely different things.

               And there was something bothering John. How far were they going to have to go to get Moriarty to confess? What sort of twisted things does it take to get a psychopath to crack? What if they lost themselves along the way?

               But as much as these thoughts nagged at the back of his mind, he pushed them away. Jim was human, and he was susceptible to pain as much as anyone else.

               Right?

*************************************************************************************

               John and Sherlock made their way into the main room, where Jim was still tied to his chair.

               “Good morning, sunshine.” Jim grinned across the room at them.

               The criminal had proved to be much more of a burden than they had originally thought. As previously mentioned, he was still human, and humans needed food, water, and care if they were to be useful.

               “What’s for breakfast?” Jim tried again.

               John was surprised when Sherlock actually replied, “Nothing, for you.”

               “Ooooh starvation, I hope you’re ready for a grumpy prisoner, I’m not myself when I don’t get food,” Jim grinned.

               “Grumpy, sure. Weak, too. Mind working slower than usual. It’s just what we need,” Sherlock said. Lying to Jim wouldn’t make a difference, so why even try? He already knew why they were doing this.

               “We’ll see, won’t we?” Jim said darkly. No response. Sherlock pulled up a chair and stared at the criminal. John made tea in the kitchen.

               “Shall we begin?” Sherlock said. It wasn’t really a question. Moriarty merely stared in response.

               “Confess.” Sherlock ordered.

               “I don’t know what you mean, darling.”

               “I said, _confess_.”

               “I’m a children’s actor, I don’t know what you want from me,” Jim said in a voice sweet as sugar.

               Before anyone could blink, Sherlock stood up and slapped Jim hard across the face. The sound echoed throughout the flat, and John caught himself wincing.

               Jim smiled eerily at Sherlock. “Is that the best you can do? Really, all you’ve done is slap me for a week.”

               “So the slapping definitely won’t work?” Sherlock studied Jim as though he would a mildly interesting experiment.

               “Try being a little more creative, honey. Punching and slapping is really soooo boring.”

               “Alright then.” And without hesitation, Sherlock swung his leg back and gave Jim a swift kick between the legs, eliciting a true wail of pain from the criminal.

               John walked over from the kitchen, “What was that?” he asked.

               “Kick between the legs seems to get a reaction.”

               John winced before walking over to Jim, “Now, what was your name again?” he asked.

               The criminal was seething, between clenched teeth he spat, “Richard Brook.”

               “Hope you don’t plan on having any children,” John said brightly, before lifting his tea to his lips again. Sherlock gave the criminal another kick, eliciting what was almost a complete scream from Jim. It was good that the flat was well insulated.

               Jim at this point was looking quite green, and his eyes had welled up with tears. He dry heaved a few times before speaking. John couldn’t imagine the pain he was probably in right now.

               “Richard Brooke is my name,” he growled at his two captors. Jim couldn’t think of anything but the bare minimum he needed to say. He was seeing spots and hoped Sherlock could _deduce_ that this method wasn’t working quickly.

               “John, fetch me a few knives.” Sherlock didn’t acknowledge Jim’s previous words. John curtly walked to the kitchen and grabbed a steak knife, a bread knife, and one, large butcher knife. He was a little disturbed at how readily he responded, but when he remembered the people Jim had killed, the torment he had caused, he didn’t feel so sorry.

               “Help me take his clothes off,” Sherlock moved towards to criminal.

               “I like where this is going,” Jim said in a deep voice, he still sounded deeply pained.

               John and Sherlock roughly removed Moriarty’s suit as quickly as they could, as his bonds made it difficult. Finally, they were faced with a completely naked Jim, save for his underwear.

               “What’s your name?” John asked again. 

               “My name is Richard Brooke I’m a children’s actAAA-” Jim’s denial turned into a yell as Sherlock raked his forearm with the jagged, dull bread knife. The mark was messy, and angry red around the edges.

               “It’s rude to interrupt, Sherly-”

               Sherlock added another few slices on his forearm. _Not as much of a reaction this time_ , he noted. Jim merely grunted at these.

               “I must say, I find this rather arousing, Sherlock. How about you bring over that riding crop of yours?” Jim said, a bit of his trademark charisma surfacing again.

               “Sherlock,” John interrupted. His friend looked over. “Cut the shoulders, they hurt more.”

               “Where did you learn this, JohnAARG-” Jim let loose a more disturbing yell this time, as Sherlock used the butcher knife to make several deep cuts on his right shoulder. He sounded almost human, this time, and groaned before continuing his sentence.

               “You’re quite the twisted doctor, Johnny, this is-”

               “Say another word, and I’ll cut your cock off,” Sherlock interrupted.

               For once, Jim remained silent. That _damn_ doctor knew a few tricks, didn’t he?

               “Now, what’s your name?”

               “Richard Brooke.”

               This time, Sherlock added a few long, deep cuts on Jim’s thigh. The criminal closed his eyes and tilted his head back, he felt lightheaded and nauseous. His entire leg felt extremely hot, was that really all blood?

               “Still Richard Brooke?” John asked.

               Moriarty merely glared in response, and after a few seconds of silence John turned away and walked to the kitchen. Both men watched him with curiosity, and Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly at what John brought back. A box of table salt; why hadn’t he thought of that? Moriarty swallowed nervously when his eyes focused on it.

               “How about now?” John gave him another chance.

               “I believe so,” Jim looked at the former soldier with hatred.

               “John, grab me that cloth,” Sherlock ordered.

               John complied, and the detective gagged Moriarty; he didn’t want anyone overhearing this, and Jim was bound to scream louder than ever this time. Not to mention that the whole of London still thought Jim a children’s actor and Sherlock a dangerous fraud.

               Now that they had that taken care of, Sherlock poured some salt into his palm, and without another offer to confess, began grinding it into Jim’s wounds.

               Jim couldn’t remember a time he had felt that much pain before. It certainly hadn’t been recently. His vision started to go fuzzy, and all he could do was scream into the cloth he was gagged with. They would never get anything out of him. They were _ordinary_ , and they weren’t hurting him, no they _couldn’t_ hurt him, he wasn’t ordinary.

*************************************************************************************

               Two coats of salt and nothing. Three and still nothing. Jim wouldn’t confess. To tortured and torturer, the day went ridiculously slowly.

               John sighed, “I think we’ll have to call it a day, Sherlock, he’s not going to talk today.”

               “No! He will talk!” Sherlock asserted, a day of nothing but torture was getting to him.

               “Sherlock…”

               “He is going to confess what he’s done!”

               “Alright!” John threw his hands up in exasperation, “But I’m going to bed. So keep it down.” John marched up the stairs.

               Sherlock turned back to the criminal. He stared into his cold eyes. Why couldn’t the world just listen to _him_? He was the one helping them, after all.

               He removed Jim’s gag. “What is your name?”

               Jim stared for a moment before responding. “Richard Brooke.”


	3. The Devil Within

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Gore

_“You’ll never know what hit you_

_won’t see me closing in_

_I’m gonna make you suffer this Hell you’ve put me in.”_

_-Digital Daggers_

               John groggily opened his eyes. He felt like he hadn’t slept at all. Wait, had Sherlock even woke him up for his shift watching Jim? Shit!

               The former soldier leapt out of bed, suddenly wide awake. If Jim was gone they were dead, there was no telling what he would do to Sherlock and him. Not to mention Mrs. Hudson and the rest of the few people they knew…

               As John tromped down the stairs, however he froze when his nose was hit with an unbelievably strong smell of blood. He could almost taste the iron, and had to fight to keep himself from vomiting. Flashbacks of his time in Afghanistan pushed themselves to the front of John’s mind, and he had to fight to push them back down. He forced himself to move down the last few stairs and into the main room.

               Finally taking in the scene in the living room, however, John found that reality wasn’t any less disturbing than his long suppressed memories of the war. Both Jim and Sherlock were coated in blood, as was the chair Moriarty sat in, and the towel spread out underneath it. Looking at Moriarty’s body was extremely difficult, evil as he was, and John felt a little sick. Both of his arms were completely covered in cuts, ranging from deep, clean wounds, to jagged, more shallow ones. Regardless of the nature of the injuries, all of the skin surrounding them was angry red, and it was clear that the salt had done it’s damage well.

               The criminal himself remained gagged and barely clothed, not looking nearly as dangerous as he did in a suit… he barely looked like the same person. His head was tilted all the way back, and he looked barely conscious. Rather than resonating screams as he had made before, Jim’s voice had been reduced to deep moans of pain.

               Sherlock knelt in front of him, knife in hand. He had tortured Jim all night, trying to get a confession. John couldn’t help but feel disturbed and worried for his friend. He decided he had seen enough.

               “Sherlock?” he asked with authority.

               “Oh, good, you’re awake, John,” the detective didn’t turn away from Jim, looking for a place to cut next, “No confession all night. I need you to get me some nails from the store, preferably dull.”

               “Nails-? Sherlock this is getting out of hand. You haven’t slept all night!”

               “I wasn’t tired, we’re close, I can feel it.”

               “No. Sherlock, it’s been almost two weeks. We have barely left the flat for two weeks, and I don’t think we can get much of a confession from Moriarty if he’s unconscious. We’re going out for the day.”

               “Don’t be ridiculous, John, this takes the highest priority-”

               “Sherlock, you’re disturbing me and I really think we need a break from this. Humor me at least.”

               There was a moment of silence as Sherlock took in John’s words. All that could be heard was Moriarty’s labored breathing, and both men were aware that he was probably listening to their every word, despite the horrible pain he must be in.

               _I’ve disturbed John_ , Sherlock thought. Something was deeply wrong about the thought. John was the only person he really had, and he couldn’t stand the thought of frightening him. But he needed a confession; didn’t John care about that…? This was the man who had ruined their lives; an evil mastermind… and John was going to pity him? How he hated dealing with people less intelligent than him. Why couldn’t he just show John a snapshot of his thoughts?

               “We can’t just leave him here alone, John,” Sherlock finally said.

               “Mrs. Hudson can watch him,” John answered.

               “Oh, yes, an old woman watching a criminal mastermind, what could go wrong?” Sherlock retorted sarcastically.

               “Sherlock, look at the state of him!” an exasperated John gestured to the bloody Moriarty, “Do you really think he’s going to have the energy to make an escape with that much blood loss, that much pain, plus lack of food and water? Go get cleaned up, I’m getting him some water.”

               At this, Sherlock finally put the knife he was holding down, and with a huff at John, set off for the shower. He hated losing arguments.

*************************************************************************************

               Finally, both men were ready to leave, and they sought out Mrs. Hudson, who John hoped would do them this (admittedly unreasonable) favor.

               “Mrs. Hudson?”

               “Oh, hello, John, what can I do for you?” she said cheerfully.

               “Can you do Sherlock and me a huge favor?”

               “Does this have to do with-” the cheer was suddenly gone from her voice, changed to fear. She gestured towards their flat door, where she now knew Jim was.

               “Yes. Sherlock and I need a day off, and we need someone to just keep an eye on him. He’s pretty much unconscious right now, so it shouldn’t be much of a job,” John attempted to sound casual.

               “Now, if I had absolutely _anything_ to do this afternoon, I would have said no,” she began, attempting to sound stern, “but fortunately for you, I don’t. As long as I won’t have to do any of that… disciplining that you two have been doing…”

               Sherlock interrupted, “We’ve been trying to get a confession, to no avail. Also, if he appears to be bleeding through his suit, don’t try to take it off to help him, because all of his injuries were deserved.”

               “Oh, yes, of course, dear-”

               “And if he tries to speak to you, don’t listen to a word he says. He knows how to play people. If he tries to tell you he’s innocent, don’t listen. If he paints John and me in a negative light, don’t listen. And most of all, if he tries to get you to go near him: Do. Not. Listen.”          

               “Of course, Sherlock, you and John have a nice day out.” Mrs. Hudson answered kindly, but John saw worry in her eyes.

               “Be careful,” Sherlock turned to leave.

               “Of course.”

               “Thank you, and please, stay safe. Don’t be afraid to call us,” John said softly.

               “Yes, John dear. This is the last favor you two will get out of me for a while!” She called after the two retreating men. In the back of her mind, though, Mrs. Hudson wondered what she had just gotten herself into.

*************************************************************************************

               Mrs. Hudson wasn’t sure what she expected to see upon walking into the apartment, but it certainly wasn’t this.

               The place was clean—almost too clean. From the noises she had been hearing for the past few days, she had been expecting to walk in on a bloody murder scene… they seemed to have done a good job cleaning it up. She pushed this thought from her mind—as much as she hated the man, she would rather not think about Sherlock and John deliberately hurting another person.

               The man in the chair looked completely different than the man she had been captured by 11 days ago. This one looked more vulnerable; he looked paler, and his head was bent down forward, like he could barely hold it up. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but flinch looking at him, remembering the readiness his thug had obeyed him with, wrapping his arm around her neck…

               She shuddered and quickly decided the best way to make the time pass would be to straighten the place up. Sherlock and John would come home to a cleaner flat, and hopefully it would seem like no time at all before they were back.

               “Help me,” just as she was entering the kitchen, a weak voice spoke up. Sherlock had warned her about this. She would ignore it.

               “Please… it hurts…”

               Mrs. Hudson attempted to ignore the voice. Now, where should she start? She didn’t want to disturb Sherlock’s experiments too much…

               “Please help me.” The voice continued to moan.

               Against her better judgement, Mrs. Hudson decided to attempt to put a stop to the man’s begging.

               “No. Sherlock and John warned me about you,” she tried to muster as much authority as she could in her voice.

               Jim inwardly smirked. God, it was almost _too_ easy.

               “Oh, God, what did they tell you? Please, I just want to go home…” Moriarty pleaded.

               “They told me that you’re dangerous, and not to speak to you,” Jim detected a note of doubt in her voice.

               “Do I look dangerous? Please, I miss my family. I just want this nightmare to end. That Sherlock’s a madman. The things he did to me… you can’t imagine…” he begged desperately.

               “Sherlock is a friend. He would never have done anything that wasn’t necessary.” Mrs. Hudson tried to put dishes in the sink as loudly as she could.

               “ _Not necessary?_ Lady, look around you! He keeps body parts in the fridge! He cut me with butcher knives and then rubbed _salt_ in the wounds! That’s _necessary?_ ” He sounded on the verge of hysteria.

               Silence in the kitchen. Sherlock did do some strange things… but she had always assumed they were quirks, nothing to worry about. Simply a result of his intelligence. But the screams she had heard…

               “Please, I just want this nightmare to be over. I want that psycho locked up. Please, can you just let me go? You seem like a good person.” he continued to plead.

               Mrs. Hudson walked out of the kitchen. She stared at Jim; he stared back. She looked over his bruised face, his dirty hair, his blood stained suit. He looked pale and sickly. There was no doubt that he had gone through a lot in the past few days.

               “Please,” Moriarty begged, “look into my eyes. Surely you can tell that I’m not who they say I am.”

               Mrs. Hudson stared into the man’s dark orbs. They were deep; a person could get lost in those eyes. Lose themselves, keep falling and falling into them until they forgot who they were…

               No. There was something wrong. Something was off. Despite the desperation on the surface, there looked to be nothing but cold if one delved deeper. Sherlock was a friend. Despite his strangeness, he had been nothing but kind to her for her entire life—one of the few people who had, actually. And if she couldn’t trust him, she couldn’t trust anyone.

               “No,” she finally responded, “You’re a bad man. You’re a monster who tried to kill the one man who had ever been kind to me, and if you weren’t tied to that chair, you’d have put a knife in my neck already. I would appreciate it if you would keep quiet now, dear, because although I look like a gullible old woman, just a bit of Sherlock’s observational skills have rubbed off on me. And I can see the evil in your eyes.”

               Mrs. Hudson hadn’t known what kind of response she had been expecting, but her short burst of confidence was short lived, because to her horror, the look of desperation on the man’s face in a flash changed to a classic, Cheshire cat grin.

               “I’m impressed. Why don’t you come over and let me give you a congratulations kiss?”

               “… you’re disgusting,” Mrs. Hudson was practically rooted to the ground with fear.

               The grin disappeared, “That’s not very nice. You have to admit, though, I am quite good at this acting thing. It’s so easy to fool people.”

               Mrs. Hudson struggled to keep her voice from shaking, “You didn’t fool me.”

               “I had you going,” Jim paused for a moment, “… In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you almost _wanted_ me to be right about Sherlock…”

               “You’re—you’re wrong,” Mrs. Hudson asserted weakly, “Sherlock is my friend, he would never-”

               “Never what?” Moriarty interrupted, “Hurt anyone? Ah, yes, kind old Sherlock, lending a helping hand to all in need. Sherlock the good Samaritan… that has a nice ring to it, hahaha…” It was hard for Mrs. Hudson to tell if he was still talking to her or just himself by the end of Jim’s statement.

               “But really,” Jim turned to look Mrs. Hudson directly in the eyes again, “I got these bruises from somewhere. Oh, I wish you could see what he’s done to my arms and shoulders… I can imagine the look on your face,” he made a childlike imitation of a look of terror, chuckling to himself.

               Mrs. Hudson didn’t know what to say. After a few moments of silence, staring the monster in the face, she spoke up, “You deserved what he gave you, you… you… monster.”

               “Do you really believe that, though?” Jim asked incredulously, “Do you just blindly swallow whatever Sherlock decides to shove down your throat? (Oooh, that sounds quite naughty, actually…) I suppose that’s one of the curses of being ordinary and stupid, though, you really have no choice but to look at people like Sherlock and me and believe what we say, because it’s too much for you to comprehend.”

               “I can think for myself, thank you very much!” Mrs. Hudson tried to sound indignant, but only succeeded in highlighting how afraid she truly was.

               “Of course you can,” the conversational tone was gone from Jim’s voice, “But let me be clear; as much as you like to think Sherlock is your friend, there is a thin line between heaven and hell. And it is ever so easy to reach up from the flames and grab corruptible angels.”

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	4. Just Like You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Torture

_“I could be cold_

_I could be ruthless_

_You know I could be just like you”_

_–Three Days Grace_

 

               It had been a good day out, John decided as he and Sherlock grabbed a taxi back to 221B. As reluctant as Sherlock had been to leave Jim, it was obvious that seeing sunlight again was doing him wonders. John had even convinced him to eat half a sandwich, which was a miracle in itself seeing how painfully thin the detective was growing.

               “I do hope that Mrs. Hudson wasn’t given too much trouble,” John remarked to Sherlock as they sat in the cab.

               Sherlock looked pointedly at John, “John, I’m _sure_ that he either spoke gibberish riddles to her all day, or just sat there. Most likely, she’ll leave thinking that we accidentally kidnapped a mental patient.” It was a completely illogical assumption, but Sherlock didn’t care. He was on a high of sorts now that he was out of his rut, and he might as well ride it out.

               “That man _belongs_ in a mental institution,” John said quietly, suddenly serious.

               _Yes, but so do I,_ Sherlock didn’t say this out loud. Instead, he gave John what he wanted, “All in good time.”

               The two contently sat in silence for the rest of the ride, thinking that, for once, things were looking up.

*************************************************************************************

               As soon as John opened the door to 221B, he felt his happiness from the day drain. It was back to torturing. Trying to get a confession out of someone destined never to crack. Suddenly, their assumptions that Mrs. Hudson was fine seemed foolish.

               He and Sherlock turned to look at each other, and, without another word, ran up the stairs as fast as they could, slamming open the door to the flat and almost falling over each other in the doorway.

               Mrs. Hudson rushed out of the kitchen, and Jim snapped his head over towards his captors.

               The former put her hand over her heart, “Goodness,” she gasped, “You two gave me a fright.” She gave a weak smile. “How was your day?”

               John and Sherlock’s breathing was beginning to slow. “Fine,” Sherlock answered curtly as he took off his scarf. He watched Mrs. Hudson out of the corner of his eye. Her hands were shaking slightly and she looked pale. No one was that afraid after a door slammed open.

               “Have you been cleaning?” John asked her.

               “Oh, just a bit, to pass the time, you know, a little here, a little there…” even John noticed her voice shaking a bit. Jim meanwhile was struggling to hide a smirk, how he loved the affect mere _words_ had on these people…

               “Thank you, you didn’t have to--” John began.

               “What did he do to you?” Sherlock demanded. Jim finally let himself throw a smirk in the detective’s direction.

               Mrs. Hudson almost did it. She almost lied to them and told them she was fine, that she didn’t know what he had been going on about. Instead, she let herself break down.

               “He—he said things…” she wept into her hands. Jim broke out into a full grin. He was going to go through hell when they picked up the knives again, but this was worth it.

               Sherlock and John both marched over to Mrs. Hudson, John putting a hand on the weeping woman’s shoulder. “What sort of things?” he asked quietly.

               “That man is a monster!” Mrs. Hudson replied, voice shaking. Her breathing was almost hysterical, and John decided it was best to get her somewhere away from Jim, where she could lay down.

               “We’re going to make him pay, okay?” John said softly, “Let’s get you home.” As he began leading the still crying Mrs. Hudson to the door, he growled to Sherlock, “Find out what he did.”

               The door closed, and the two nemeses were left alone together. Sherlock turned on his heel towards Jim. He stared at the defiant captive, analyzing. There was a long silence between the two.

               Finally, Jim spoke up in a low voice, “Did you notice anything odd about her response?”

               Sherlock looked onto the criminal with hatred, “You think it’s funny,” he took a step towards Jim, “to traumatize old women?”

               “I think it’s funny to traumatize anyone stupid and gullible. Serves them right. And you didn’t answer my question.”

               Sherlock marched over to the kitchen briskly. There were many people he hated, but he can’t remember a time that he had felt so much blind rage before.

               “She didn’t point to anyone specific when she said ‘monster,’” Jim said ominously.

               Sherlock stopped his rummaging for a moment, considering this. It was rubbish, of course. Jim was trying to get a rise out of him; trying to affect him. Sherlock had done nothing but help Mrs. Hudson throughout her life, and Jim had only shown her cruelty. It was quite obvious who she thought the monster was. Finally, he replied, “She was in hysterics, you know how people are, they say things without thinking them through.” He went back to searching the kitchen.

               “Well, _obviously_ she was in hysterics, but there seems to be a bit of truth to her words, don’t you think?” Jim was obviously provoking Sherlock, though he wasn’t sure _why_ he was bothering.

               Finally, Sherlock found what he was looking for. Matches. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet they kept the booze in, and turned around to face Moriarty. As he walked towards the prisoner, Jim continued speaking, trying to not make it obvious he was buying himself time.

               “You’ve been torturing me almost two weeks, Sherlock,” he whispered, “That’s quite worthy of a monster, don’t you think?”

               Sherlock brought himself level with Jim’s challenging eyes. “I am not a monster,” he snarled.

               “Oh, but Sherly, you are me, remember?” Jim said in a voice that was simultaneously the most welcoming and the most disturbing thing Sherlock had ever heard, “Who’s stealing lines now?” he added with a smirk.

               Sherlock felt sick, “I could be just like you,” he started unscrewing the lid off the whiskey, “I could be cold. I could be ruthless.”

               “And I could be just like you,” Jim’s eyes followed Sherlock’s hand as he poured some alcohol on the criminal’s palm, “Weak, senseless. You don’t know how much you hold yourself back, Sherlock.” There was a strange hunger in Jim’s eyes when they met Sherlock’s.

               Sherlock gagged Jim before he could say more, and promptly lit the match, searing the patch of skin the alcohol had touched. The gag barely quieted the screams that filled the flat, and Sherlock wished the walls were completely soundproof. This would become quite a sticky situation if the police got involved.

               He snuffed out the fire with a nearby pillow, and ungagged Moriarty, who breathed heavily as he stared daggers at the detective.

               “What is your name?” Sherlock asked offhandedly.

               “You disgust me,” Jim snarled before Sherlock replaced the gag again. He hated the detective. He had never known true hate before this, he realized. Before he had met Sherlock. One man like him, in the entire world, and he chose to be _ordinary_. He chose to be weak. Jim pictured clawing Sherlock’s pretty pale skin off, and didn’t feel better in the slightest.

               Sherlock put the alcohol on Jim’s neck this time, and lit another match. Jim was seeing spots by the time this burn was over. _Ironic,_ he thought, _how Sherlock was burning_ him _, now_.

               Sherlock took the gag off again.

               “What is your name?” he demanded.

               Jim merely stared. Sherlock, irritated, replaced the gag again after a few seconds of silence. There was something in his eyes, Jim realized, something oddly familiar…

               Suddenly, it hit him. Wasn’t that the look _he_ had often worn for particularly frustrating clients? It wasn’t mere anger that was in those eyes, it was obsession. Something a bit off. He had seen that look staring back at him in a mirror so many times, how had he never noticed it on Sherlock before?

               The next burn was too much for Moriarty. He felt himself swiftly losing consciousness, and just before he fell under, he felt himself feel a twinge of pride in Sherlock.


	5. Far Too Young To Die

_“Fixation or psychosis?_

_Devoted to neurosis now_

_Endless romantic stories_

_You never could control me.”_

_–Panic! At The Disco_

 

               _Jim was back on the rooftop. The hospital rooftop from that fateful day. The day of the fall. He ought to wait for Sherlock a bit longer. He didn’t want to miss the detective’s appearance._

_It was cold outside, and the criminal wanted to shiver. He wasn’t one to get cold often…_

_He looked down; he wasn’t in his trademark suit. Jim recognized the disguise he had worn the first time he had met Sherlock, as Jim from I.T. He felt uncomfortable; exposed. He crossed his arms and studied his surroundings. Everything looked much the same as it had that day…_

_A throat was cleared, and Jim’s head snapped in the direction of the noise. There was Sherlock. He wore his typical black coat and blue scarf. Jim felt a bit jealous—why did he have to be exposed while Sherlock stood there in his normal clothing? Other than clothes, however, he didn’t look anything like the way he had on the day of the fall. He had been a broken man then, now he looked, he looked confident. Jim recognized the same look in his eyes that he’d seen as Sherlock burnt him._

_“You came.” Jim found himself saying. It sounded a bit weaker than ideal. More of a Richard Brooke voice than a James Moriarty voice…_

_“Do you know why I’m here?” Sherlock asked, studying Jim. His sharp eyes reflected the light from the sky that seemed so close to them, and Jim felt himself wanting to study them rather than formulate an answer._

_“You’re here to fall,” Jim said with sudden conviction._

_Sherlock smirked, and Jim returned the gesture, “Am I?” the detective tilted his head to the side._

_Suddenly, the scene changed. Jim, to his distaste, was still in his same outfit from before, and he and Sherlock appeared to be in the lab from the hospital._

_“Do you like it?” Sherlock asked._

_Jim was confused, “Like what?”_

_“What I’ve done. Impressive, isn’t it?” he gestured to the room around them._

_Jim stared at the detective, and hesitated. For some reason, he felt like this was an important response. Against his better judgment, he decided to answer with a firm, “No.”_

_The scene quickly changed again, and Jim felt his stomach drop. He was… flying? No, he wouldn’t be afraid if he had control. There was nothing below him but clouds._

_He looked up, and there was Sherlock. The detective was holding Jim over the edge of some sort of a cliff. He had a firm grip on Jim’s right hand._

_Jim didn’t. Want. To. Fall._

_“LET ME UP!” he screamed at the detective. God, the fool was going to get him killed. He was going to drop him off this damned cliff. His whole body shook as he screamed, loosening Sherlock’s grip a little bit and effectively quieting the criminal._

_“I’ve never so adored you,” Sherlock stared down at Jim with a soft expression._

_Jim’s heart skipped a beat in surprise. That was certainly…strange._

_“What?” he managed to get out. There was a lump in his throat and he felt another wave of disgust. Was this how other people felt every day?_

_“I adore you,” Sherlock repeated, “My fallen angel.”_

_That deep voice of his. He needed to shut up before Jim put a bullet in his head. Though fallen angel was quite poetic. When Jim blinked and opened his eyes again, his mouth almost dropped open._

_Angel wings. They looked familiar, like… the ones from the painting his parents used to keep on the living room wall. He had grown up hating that picture, but on Sherlock the wings looked… quite beautiful. He felt himself wanting to stroke them. He was sure the feathers would be remarkably soft. His eyes moved to Sherlock’s hair. Jim wondered if that would be soft as well…_

_Jim realized that he felt a great deal more at ease with his situation now. He wouldn’t mind if Sherlock kept him like this. He felt weightless._

_Suddenly, Sherlock lifted Jim up in one swift move, and he was on soft grass next to Sherlock, legs over the cliff. He was finally wearing a suit. Jim wondered when that had changed._

_Jim wasted no time. He turned to Sherlock, who appeared to already have been looking at him._

_He had to have him closer._

_Jim moved in towards Sherlock, and their lips met. Jim was shocked at how soft the detective’s were against his own. He was so_ gentle _in the way he moved, and Jim had a strange urge to cry._

_Sherlock gently pushed Jim over onto the grass, without separating their lips._

_Jim felt two bumps underneath his shoulder blades in the grass, as if he had lain down on rocks. However, as he stole a glance over to his right, he saw a skeletal, leathery black wing lying there. It appeared as if all the feathers had been burned off._

_Fallen angel. He was the one who had fallen? What about Sherlock? He was the one who had fallen, wasn’t he?_

_Jim closed his eyes and felt the tension from he didn’t know how many years drain from his shoulders. He ignored the need to observe and just felt. A moment couldn’t hurt._

_Sherlock’s large hand in his hair. His weight on top of him. His own hair entwined with Sherlock’s. The throbbing pain all over his body._

_What?_

Before he knew it, Jim felt his euphoria from the dream draining. The pain of reality started to weigh on him again. He heard typing, and he struggled to open his eyes.

               Jim blinked a few times before searching the room for Sherlock. He was disappointed. All that could be found was John, who seemed to be on watch while Sherlock slept.

               Sherlock probably wasn’t dreaming about him. Sherlock probably didn’t dream at all. Maybe _he_ was the ordinary one, and Sherlock was special. Special people most likely didn’t dream, and if they did, it was probably about important, realistic things.

               Jim felt unbelievably disgusted with himself. Was he _really_ going to fall in _love_ with Sherlock? Of course not. Then why _the hell_ was he having dreams about kissing him? About angel wings? It was completely impractical. And love was just so _common_. Even the word, _love_. Jim just hoped he hadn’t said anything in his sleep…

               No, this was just a dream. A remarkably ordinary dream. He refused to think about it anymore.

               As Moriarty tried to slip back into unconsciousness, however, he found himself wanting to see Sherlock the angel again.

               Because, really, what did dreams matter?


	6. Sweet Dreams

_“I wanna use you, and abuse you_

_I wanna know what’s inside you.”_

_–Marilyn Manson_

              

               “What?” Sherlock was incredulous. John really couldn’t be serious.

               “I said, physical torture is getting us nowhere. He’s in dangerous condition and it’s clear we need to try something else,” John asserted.

               The two men were talking in Sherlock’s room, where John had had to go to wake him up. It wasn’t strange; if they didn’t have a case, Sherlock often was hard to get up in the morning.

               “Let me guess; you want to try something psychological,” Sherlock said, still unconvinced.

               “That’s exactly what I want to do. Sherlock, we can’t have another Mrs. Hudson incident, and this is taking far too long. I mean, I have to work and I can’t exactly be living with a psychopath--”

               “Ah, yes. Your oh so important job at the hospital. How could I forget?” Sherlock couldn’t deny he was a bit insulted. Why would John choose his everyday occupation over the stimulation he had to offer? Especially when he needed all of the help he could get.

               “Yes, Sherlock, my job at the hospital that will be supporting the both of us while you try and get a confession out of this prick!”

               “So, if I’m to do the torturing, why do you get to choose what I do? It doesn’t affect you, you’ll be at work all day.”

               “Sherlock,” John spoke slowly, as if to a small child, “The longer you don’t get a confession, the longer I’ll have to support us both! And it’s pretty obvious that physical torture is getting us nowhere, so, logically, psychological torture might be the next thing to try! And what are we supposed to do when you take it too far and kill him? We’ll have a body on our hands and you will still be known to London as a fraud.”

               Sherlock stared at him for a moment. Psychological torture on a psychopath. Yes. That would work.

               “Fine,” he finally spat. With a huff, he tromped down the stairs to the kitchen to make himself some tea. John followed him with a sigh.

               As the tea sat on the stove, Sherlock stole a glance towards Jim, who was strangely quiet this morning. He appeared to be studying the books on the shelf to his left. Odd.

               “Why so quiet?” Sherlock decided the games might as well start now.

               Jim turned towards Sherlock reluctantly, staring down the detective. He really wasn’t in a mood for this today. He watched the flame of the stove, studying it. What pain did Sherly have in mind for him today?

               “What? Bad dream?” Sherlock asked sarcastically, pouring himself and John some tea. He was still upset from losing the fight with John, and didn’t particularly care if teasing the criminal set back progress.

               “…No,” Jim said in a threatening voice. He looked Sherlock dead in the eyes, imagining what it would be like to take a knife to that porcelain skin…

               “Funny,” John remarked, turning to the criminal, “You did a lot of moaning last night. And you even spoke at one point.”

               Sherlock noted the slight hitch in Jim’s breathing. Interesting. Maybe that could prove useful for today.

               “Oh? And what did I say, Johnny?” Jim’s eyes screamed challenge.

               “Something like ‘let me up’. You seemed sort of desperate. Traumatic childhood memory?” This captured Sherlock’s interest, and he chimed in.

               “Sounds like something someone close to falling would say,” he took a step towards Jim, taking in his appearance. He did look quite sickly. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he looked at Sherlock with less certainty than when he had first come to 221B. His shoulders were slouched, and he looked extremely pale. Although, he noted, it seemed that while he lost some confidence, it had been replaced with more contempt.

               “… I suppose it is,” Jim answered.

               “Are you afraid of falling?” Sherlock stood directly in front of Moriarty, who was doing his best to avoid eye contact. He didn’t want to see the detective’s eyes, though he wasn’t sure why.

               “And why,” Sherlock continued, “Do you seem so afraid to look me in the face?” It was almost more of a question to himself than to the criminal. John watched the scene with a nagging feeling in his gut. He had a theory as to why this was… a remarkably disturbing theory. Regarding what else Jim had said that night.

               Jim finally turned his brown eyes to Sherlock’s, but just as he opened his mouth to answer, he found himself cut off by the ringing of John’s phone.

               He allowed himself a mental sigh of relief as Sherlock turned around to see who it was. John mouthed a name to Sherlock that Jim didn’t recognize, and, with an “I’ll be right there” grabbed his coat and left the flat.

               Sherlock turned back to Jim, and the criminal did his best to stare him down.

               “Why the lack of clever responses today?” Sherlock resumed prying.

               Moriarty tilted his head, “I was just wondering how your head would look on a wooden stake. It’s old fashioned, but what can I say? I’m a romantic.”

               “What’s the real reason?” Sherlock was actually a bit curious now.

               Jim mentally kicked himself. What was the matter with him? Why couldn’t they just start already? As horrible as he felt, physical pain was something that was easily tolerated. He could lock himself within his mind and separate himself from reality. If Sherlock decided to start flat out interrogating him, it would be much harder for him to keep up the act. He needed a plan. Needed a plan to get out.

               Jim channeled his anger into his voice, “Because, _Sherly._ I’m tired of this game. The king has to get back to his throne.”

               Sherlock glanced at the chair Jim was still tied to.

               Jim remained on the defensive, “This isn’t _my_ throne,” he growled.

               Sherlock couldn’t resist, “Really? I think it suits you quite nicely.”

               Jim desperately wished this whole mess had never happened. He had gotten sloppy, and this was the ultimate price he was paying. He, quite honestly, never wanted to see Sherlock again. _Why_ hadn’t he just pushed him off the hospital rooftop when he had had the chance?

               The two men studied each other for a few more moments.

               “Are you hungry?” Sherlock asked curtly.

               “Are you going to poison me?” Jim shot back.

               “Am I?”

               “No.” Moriarty didn’t bother explaining out loud. They both knew why it was illogical. He watched as Sherlock turned his back on him and walked to the kitchen. He began rummaging through cabinets, and Jim studied his motions.

               “You’re not organized,” Jim noted.

               “The most creative people aren’t organized,” Sherlock responded, distracted.

               “And the most successful _are_ ,” Jim pointed out.

               “You seem to have ensured that I’m not successful, however, so that isn’t a problem,” Sherlock said with finality as he returned to Jim. In his hands he held a glass of water and a bowl of dry cereal.

               It looked mouthwatering, and Jim felt lightheaded just looking at it.

               Sherlock set his burden down on the table nearest to Jim, “I’m going to untie your arms,” he said, “and if you try anything, I’ll take out the matches again and use them on more hidden places.”

               “Understood,” Jim replied with an eye roll.

               Sherlock moved behind Jim and unlocked the (stolen) handcuffs binding him. His wrists were bleeding and raw from being confined in the metal for so long, and Jim couldn’t stop the grunt that escaped him when his arms were free.

               “And just in case,” Jim heard a familiar click, and Sherlock moved around him so that the gun was pointed straight at his forehead, “I’m a good shot, so be warned.”

               Jim rolled his eyes, “I’m sure you are.” Sherlock handed him the water and cereal, which Moriarty greedily consumed as Sherlock watched.

               He barely got a moment to breathe after finishing before Sherlock yanked both dishes from his hands, carelessly tossed them onto a table, and roughly grabbed Moriarty’s wrists, chaining them to the back of the chair once again. He walked back to stand in front of the criminal, and gave a satisfied huff. These sorts of things really were the worst part of having a captive.

               Jim looked up at Sherlock expectantly.

               “So did you and Johnny break up?” he asked blankly.

               Sherlock scoffed, “We’re not a couple, and he was just suggesting that we move on from physical torture to something more mental oriented. You should be thanking your lucky stars that he did, because he’s the only person who could convince me.” The detective finished with a sneer.

               “That’s quite touching,” Jim said sarcastically, “It’s cute that you feel so attached to such a weakness.”

               “John isn’t a weakness. He’s a strength,” Sherlock said with authority.

               “Yes but do you really believe that? Or do you feel like you’re _supposed_ to believe it?”

               Sherlock had no response to that. Though it was quite plain that Jim was toying with him, his words held an eerie ring of truth. Did he really believe that John was a strength, or was that just because he had grown fond of him? And even then, did that make it true? How was he supposed to see through the veil of emotions to the plain facts?

               “What happened to you?” Sherlock rapidly changed the subject. He wasn’t going to waste time on silly games.

               “Whatever do you mean, Sherly?” Jim asked innocently.

               “You know what I mean,” he pushed.

               “I’m afraid I don’t,” Jim persisted.            

               “Don’t play stupid. Why are you so twisted? People aren’t born like you are. You don’t really show signs of a disease one is born with, so it had to be developed. What happened?”

               Jim paused. This was actually a tempting question. He and Sherlock were quite alike, yet so different. He wondered how similar their upbringings had been…

               “I could ask you the same question,” he finally said.

               Sherlock lowered himself to eye level, staring James straight in the face.

               “Liar,” he whispered.

               “I didn’t tell a lie,” Jim replied in a low voice.

               “You avoided the answer.”

               “So I did.”

               “….”

               “A lot of things _happened_ , Sherlock. I’m sure a lot of things happened to you, too. _Ordinary_ people can be savages,” James hissed.

               Sherlock hadn’t been expecting that. Not only was it a legitimate response, but Jim seemed to be being honest with him. He wasn’t showing any typical signs of deception, though this _was_ Jim Moriarty. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he knew it wasn’t a completely negative feeling, and that made it all the more disturbing.

               He leaned away from Jim a little, leading Jim to give a small, almost inaudible, frustrated huff. Another disturbing sign.

               “Of course they can be,” he finally said matter of factly, “Stupidity has a way of making people act like savages.”

               “Yes, and their stupid ordinary problems: ‘My boyfriend I already knew I couldn’t trust broke up with me!’ ‘I don’t know who I am!’ ‘I’m such a loser!’ all of them just completely meaningless,” the criminal mocked.

               Sherlock studied Jim. Moriarty had just described his thoughts perfectly.

               “You seem to be harboring a superiority complex,” he diagnosed, unconsciously leaning in to study Jim’s expression. He needed to see all of the subtlest details of the interaction, and at this point in his life, it was almost instinctual.

               “As do you. Admit it, you thought all of those complaints valid,” Jim pointed out in a low voice.

               “You’re the one supposed to be confessing here,” Sherlock was obviously grasping at straws for something to retort with. Jim’s features all pointed to one thing, and it wasn’t lying. Dilated pupils, elevated heart rate, slight perspiration, it was almost as if…

               “Allow me, then.”

               Before Sherlock knew what had happened, Jim had leaned forward and grabbed his bottom lip between his teeth, dragging him into a rough kiss. Sherlock was so surprised he ended up stopping his near fall with a hand on Moriarty’s shoulder. With a sudden gasp of pain, Jim released Sherlock from the kiss, cringing at the sudden pressure on his shoulder wounds.

               Sherlock violently stumbled back from Jim a few paces, and was still breathing heavily when he righted himself. He stared at Jim, mouth agape, realizing the full horror of what he had just done.

               Jim was also breathing heavily, and had a lustful look in his eyes.

               “Say something,” he demanded in a dangerous voice.

               Sherlock tried to think of something to say. He wracked his entire mind palace and there was absolutely nothing on what to say when you kissed your arch nemesis tied to a chair. He had never been good at these social things, but there most likely wasn’t much one _could_ say in a situation such as this.

               Once again, both men found themselves speechless.

               “I--” Sherlock began, but then quickly shook his head and marched off to the kitchen. He couldn’t see the look in Jim’s eyes, but he was sure that it was of well played disappointment.

               Yes, this had to be part of a trap. A plan. There was some sort of a catch. He just needed some time away from Moriarty. A day looking at and analyzing chemicals instead of Jim’s face…

               Of course it was a trap.


	7. LoveGame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for kinky fantasies, etc.

_“Hold me and love me_

_Just wanna touch you for a minute_

_Maybe three seconds is enough_

_For my heart to quit it.”_

_–Lady GaGa_

 

               Sherlock’s mind was racing. This was a new level of game for Moriarty. He had always expected that Jim had no more experience with emotions than he did, but it seemed that he had been wrong. How was he going to outwit Jim in something that he had next to no experience in?

               He stared at the bubbling chemicals on the stove. His lips still were tingling from where Jim’s had touched his, and he tasted slight iron where the criminal had grabbed him with his teeth. He ran his tongue over the indents left from the criminal’s teeth, thinking. He needed to trigger something. He needed to trigger something traumatic. Something that would make Jim crack like an egg.

               But what could have been so traumatic to make Jim the way he is today? What typically was considered traumatic? Rape? No, he was obviously far too forward for that to be the case. Abuse? No, torture hadn’t touched him. Social isolation? Sherlock had experienced that firsthand and he wasn’t like Jim.

               He wished his mind would stop being so sluggish. How long was this supposed to go on? All he could access felt unclear. No wonder Anderson was so slow, with all the girls he slept around with. If a kiss could do this little, imagine what actual sexual contact would do to a person.

               He glanced over at Moriarty, and a fleeting image of himself and the criminal passed through his mind, making him freeze.

               _No_ , Sherlock thought. He dismissed the image, but found a small, somehow still quick working, part of his mind wanted to access it again.

               He poured one chemical from a beaker into the finally boiling one on the stove. Hmm, no reaction.

               Disappointed, he supposed he ought to clean up the kitchen, as he couldn’t very well leave Jim alone in the room. Unfortunately, this meant he no longer had anything to distract him from his thoughts on the criminal.

               He hated this entire situation. All of his life, from simple observation and experience, Sherlock had learned that relationships, and people in general, were a nuisance and simply not worth the trouble. One could be more successful if they avoided them. And now, in one of the most important cases of probably his entire career, this was where the most knowledge was required.

               He almost considered asking John how to tell if a relationship was real, then decided it was better not to. Of course Jim didn’t really have any feelings for him. It was a pointless question to ask. In fact, this entire situation seemed like something to keep from John. But, by doing that, was he giving Jim ammo? Sherlock had no clue how he was to proceed from this point.

               Suddenly, he heard a door open and close. John was back. The former soldier sighed as he threw his coat on a nearby chair.

               “Sherlock?”

               “…”

               “Sherlock?”

               “Hm?”

               “Why are you in the kitchen? I thought we said no more torture?”

               “Just taking a bit of a break, John. These things are straining, you know,” he replied in a toneless voice.

               “I’ve been gone for no more than half an hour.”

               “Time flies when you’re having fun. I, however, am not having fun.”

               John sighed, “Any luck then?”

               “Do you think I would have stopped if progress had been made?” Sherlock really was hoping John would drop this soon.

               John looked at his friend, “I suppose not.” He stole a glance towards Moriarty, who was watching them both with an intense gaze. John wondered if Sherlock was telling him the entire truth, but then dismissed it, thinking back to the case with the hound in Baskerville. Sherlock, whether he liked it or not, was easily affected by things. If something had happened, he would tell John about it.

*************************************************************************************

               Sherlock avoided both Jim and John for the rest of the day. The criminal wasn’t even ashamed to admit that it frustrated him. _Why_ couldn’t Sherlock have just stayed close for a little bit longer? Just so that Jim could have the extra time to memorize how it felt to have the detective breathe on him, to feel his skin against his own.

               Jim realized it now; this wasn’t an _ordinary_ affair. Oh no. Sherlock was far from ordinary. Jim had chosen him, and he was going to have him. Jim _needed_ him. He needed more than just a kiss, though. He wanted a game.

               “Yes, Sherly, let’s play a game,” he mumbled to himself, smirking. It was night now, and Sherlock, who was supposed to be on watch, had dozed off at his computer. He did look so deliciously _vulnerable_ when he slept.

               Jim couldn’t really help himself, and he didn’t particularly want to, he had already begun imagining several different fantasies of himself and the detective. As the night went on, they got increasingly more twisted. What could he say? Sherlock deserved nothing less than the best, and Jim was the only one who could give him such extraordinary love.

               It was ever so strange, really. Ordinarily, the idea of being intimate with someone seemed nothing short of repulsive to Jim. Not because of the physical effects, it was just so _boring_. Out of the few people he had had, all of them were the same. They would moan and beg and _breathe_ all over him and he would have to pretend that he was enjoying himself. No one was really _worth his time_.

               But with Sherlock it could be different. Sherlock wasn’t _boring_ like the rest of them. There were ever so many different things they could do together. So much to learn about the curve of his spine, the way his hands moved, what he sounded like moaning Jim’s name…yes, Jim could teach the virgin a thing or two. He wanted to know how the detective _tasted_ , how he moved, how he felt…

               Jim imagined the situation reversed. Sherlock tied to a chair, Jim straddling him. Sherlock at first would avoid his gaze, but soon he would have no choice but to let his walls down and let _go_. He would at first be a clumsy kisser, Moriarty thought, but soon he would be taught all the little kinks and quirks that make it more fun.

               He pictured how Sherlock’s face would look, at first gazing up at him and then twisted with pleasure, or how it would feel to have his hand wrapped in those curls, pushing his face towards his cock…

               The lab was another fantasy of his. Sherlock would be trying to get work done, but it would be no use with Jim there. They would push all of the glasses off of the table and Jim would fuck the detective senseless. Both would leave and smirk to themselves about Molly’s expression at the mess she would find in the morning.

               _Maybe some S &M,_ Jim considered, _that would surely come as a shock_. Poor virgin Sherly would be so shocked to find people actually get pleasure from pain. But soon he would see, yes he would see that it was worth the pain to allow Jim pleasure. They could try everything; hot wax, biting, that riding crop… oh and _knives_ would be fun. Jim felt a shiver of pleasure at the thought of thin cuts on the detective’s white skin. The dark red liquid beading on the surface. He’d give Sherlock a little bit of payback for the suffering he’d been put Jim through.

               And _handcuffs_ , yes handcuffs, too. Jim twisted his hands in the ones binding him to his chair, and felt two sharp stabs of pain. He wanted to see Sherlock’s dainty little wrists all raw and bloodied up. Those hands of his, those needed a few scars to make them a little more interesting. He wanted to see him grimace in pain, his breathing increased. God, if he wasn’t tied to the chair now…

               And after all of it, after innocent little Sherlock had been fucked senseless… what then? Of course Jim would throw him to the wolves, make his escape, and then reconstruct his empire. Though then he would lose his fuck buddy, and he quite frankly didn’t want to. He wanted Sherlock _always_ there. He didn’t get to belong to anyone else. He was Jim’s. Just the thought of him with, say, Molly, was _excruciating._ Though of course Sherlock was far too intelligent to be with anyone so painfully ordinary.

               Jim felt a small ache. No one else could have those curls. No one else got to have that pale skin. Or the sharp eyes. No one else should have that. He was the only other special person in the world. Of course he should be the one that gets to fuck him. That was simply the logical answer.

               He closed his dark eyes. This was, he hated to admit, getting tiresome. Sherlock _would_ be his. The angel would fall for the devil.

               Jim decided that was that, and began constructing fantasies again. He didn’t notice how tired he was, however, and soon was falling into sleep, with the last image in his mind being Sherlock, soaking wet, chained to a bed, with an apple in his mouth.

*************************************************************************************

               Sherlock blinked. He must have fallen asleep. _He must have fallen asleep_. Suddenly, he was wide awake. A quick glance towards where Jim was, however, steadied his heartbeat a bit. Still there. He brought his computer out of sleep mode. That was too close. Usually, he had no trouble staying awake. He gave the clock a quick glance. 12:00. He had half an hour to kill before John’s shift. He decided he might as well just continue what he had previously been doing, and proceeded to click another one of John’s emails to his newest girlfriend, snickering to himself. Surely, they didn’t think this was going to work out?

               “Sherlock…mmm..”

               The detective froze. He turned his head towards the noise.

               Jim was fast asleep, slumped forward in his chair, and had the ghost of a smirk on his face.

               So, deducing using the clues offered to him, it was obvious that Jim was dreaming about him. A seemingly good dream.

               Sherlock ran his hands through his hair. Even if Jim was having a dream about him, it didn’t matter. First of all, because he would never show such emotions in waking hours. Second of all, because Sherlock didn’t care. Relationships were trouble, he’d learned that much, especially if they were with a man you hated, and didn’t want anything to do with in the first place. In fact, people themselves were trouble, for the most part.

               But Jim _had_ shown emotions towards Sherlock in waking hours. He’d kissed him earlier that day. The first kiss Sherlock had gotten in a long time.

               No. No no no. He needed to forget this entire incident. He needed to forget how Jim’s lips had felt against his. How his thin shoulder had felt under his hand…

               Sherlock mentally sighed. If he was completely honest with himself, he did wish that kiss had lasted just a bit longer. Just a bit longer, so he could have gotten this out of his system. Because now he was just unsatisfied. Jim Moriarty really _was_ the only man on Earth _like him_ , and once Sherlock got a confession he couldn’t very well kiss him in prison. This was his only chance.

               God, he hated that man. If he had hated him before, it was nothing compared to now. Then why was this weighing on him so much? This was probably just what Jim wanted.

               The detective sighed; for once in his life, he didn’t know what to think.


	8. Casual Affair

_“Take any moment, any time_

_A lover on the left_

_A sinner on the right”_

_-Panic! At The Disco_

 

_Sherlock was extremely disoriented. Where was he?_

_Suddenly, his surroundings focused. He was by the pool where he and Jim had first met, as enemies at least. The air was cool, and he smelled strong chlorine._

_His heart was hammering, he knew something was coming. The dim lighting and disorienting reflections off of the water did nothing to ease his anxiety._

_“Hello darling,” said a quiet voice from behind him. He barely had time to react before he felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around his torso._

_Sherlock stiffened at the sudden touch. He hadn’t expected Jim to come up behind him. Despite the surprise, he oddly felt himself relaxing into the criminal’s touch. Why was that? Jim had destroyed his career. The amount of people he had killed…_

_“I missed you,” Jim released the detective from his grip, and spun around to face him._

_“…what?” Sherlock spat the word. Who the hell did Jim think he was?_

_Jim cleared his throat and straightened his suit, taking a step away from the detective, “I have a proposition for you.”_

_“Oh, and what’s that?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t going to fall for anything._

_Jim put his hands in his pockets, tilting his head to the side, “This whole nemesis thing, it’s quite boring, Sherlock.”_

_Sherlock took a breath to steady himself. He wished his hands would stop shaking. He wished he had a gun…_

_“The kiss wasn’t a trick, Sherly.”_

_It was a lie, he was lying, his snipers were just getting ready to pull the trigger…_

_“There are no snipers.” If Sherlock hadn’t known better he’d have said Jim looked a bit sad when he said that._

_“What is the game then?” Sherlock demanded, “What is this_ proposition _that you have for me?”_

_Jim nodded to himself a little bit._

_“You’re on the side of the angels,” he finally said. It sounded exactly like it had the day before the fall._

_“Yes, and that makes me boring,” Sherlock said coldly._

_Jim grinned brightly at the detective, “No,” he said, “It makes you_ my _angel.”_

_Suddenly, Sherlock was soaking wet, as though he had jumped into the pool to his right. Jim was wet as well, and was… on top of him?_

_The two men were lying on the porcelain tiles, Jim’s left hand was in Sherlock’s hair, his thumb tracing circles on his forehead._

_The detective had to admit, it felt unbelievably good._

_Jim moved his lips against Sherlock’s; he was remarkably gentle as he did so. Sherlock would have always thought him to be the kinky type… strange._

_Sherlock closed his eyes, and fell into bliss with the criminal. He brought a hand up against Jim’s back, feeling the soaked fabric of his shirt cling to his back. As he did this, Jim moved his mouth to Sherlock’s neck, and the detective couldn’t suppress a groan. He wanted everything from Jim. Everything and nothing._

_“Mm… Sherlock…” Jim whispered into his neck, slightly tickling the detective with the light touch._

_“Jim…”_

_Sherlock felt Moriarty’s erection against his leg, and realized that he himself was pretty far along as well._

_Their bodies writhed against each other as Jim continued attacking Sherlock’s neck, starting to use tongue. The friction was getting unbelievably frustrating and almost unbearable. If only Jim could just get on with it and suck him off…_

_The detective felt like screaming with frustration when the scene changed. He was on the rooftop. The hospital rooftop. And there was Jim, sitting just like he had on the day of the fall._

_“Sherlock, I’m disappointed in you.”_

_The detective actually flushed a little bit. Had he not been good enough? Had Jim not been satisfied? He felt an overwhelming wave of shame—he hated disappointing people, and doing it like this was simply embarrassing. His brother’s taunts of ‘virgin’ echoed in his head._

_“Was… I not good enough?” he could barely ask it._

_“What?” Jim grimaced, “No, DOOFUS! I mean I have the death penalty Monday, because YOU had to tell John!”_

_Guilt hit Sherlock like a brick wall. Why had he done that again? It seemed so stupid, so petty…_

_“I had always thought you weren’t ordinary; that you were ‘special,’” the criminal walked towards Sherlock with a sneer, “but it turns out even you let me down, Sherlock. You let me down like all the rest of the boring people.”_

_All Sherlock could do was stare. No… he hadn’t done this… he hadn’t…_

_“And it looks like it’s time to solve my final problem now.”_

_Suddenly, Jim was up on the ledge, ready to jump._

_Oh no… oh god no…_

_Sherlock ran as fast as he could, but his legs moved as if they were submerged in molasses. He moved painfully slow, and wasn’t even halfway there when Jim stepped off the building._

_The scene changed again. It was night now, and the criminal was still bleeding on the ground by the hospital. Sherlock kneeled down next to him. He looked barely alive._

_“Jim… wake up. Wake up…” he pleaded._

_Suddenly, the detective had an idea. The only way to save Jim was to kiss him. It all made sense now._

_Sherlock leaned forwards and gave Jim a passionate kiss on the lips. He tasted blood, far too much of it, but he didn’t care. His hands were sticky with it, and his clothes must have been coated in red, but he didn’t care about that, either, because Jim was moving._

_The criminal broke his lips away from Sherlock’s as he opened his brown eyes to gaze at the detective._

_“That’s my angel.”_

*************************************************************************************

               Sherlock rubbed his eyes and blinked away sleep. What time was it?

               As he turned over to look at the clock, he felt a sticky wetness underneath him. It took him a moment to realize what had happened.

               He had had a wet dream about _Jim Moriarty_. That wasn’t right. Shouldn’t he have gotten through this stage in high school, earlier in life? Nevermind that. The criminal clearly had gotten to him. His plan was working, and Sherlock was falling into it.

               Even knowing this, the detective could only think of the feeling of their bodies against each other. Jim’s lips on his neck, on his mouth, breathing against him.

               Sherlock began developing a plan then. He needed to feel Jim close to him. Just once. It was clear from the criminal’s out of character actions yesterday that he wouldn’t be 100% against the idea.

               After all, perhaps this was just needed relief. At this point in life most men would be having sex left and right, so of course his deep buried animal instincts would have some effect on him, too. Of course he didn’t really have feelings for Jim. This was deprivation. That was all.

               Just once, Sherlock needed it. That was it. He would get a confession afterwards.


	9. Nicotine

_“I taste you on my lips and I can't get rid of you_

_So I say damn your kiss and the awful things you do.”_

_-Panic! At The Disco_

 

               John was worried about Sherlock. He had seemed strangely… strange all morning. There really was no other word for it. He would say that he was restless, but that really didn’t cover or explain it. Normally the detective was so engaged by cases. Moriarty wasn’t an ordinary case, he supposed, but in the beginning Sherlock had seemed so eager to get it started.

               John really hated leaving Sherlock alone with that psycho. And all of the signs pointed towards the conclusion that it was starting to affect his friend.

               First, there was how bloody wired he had been after getting up. Couldn’t stop running around the place. He gave overly curt replies, too; like he had rehearsed what he was going to say and couldn’t wait to say it. Then there was the defensiveness. John felt like every time he asked Sherlock a question, he was stepping on a landmine. It seemed like he was hiding something. If only John knew what…

               Whatever it was, knowing Sherlock, there was no way in hell he would get it out of him, if it was that worth hiding.

*************************************************************************************

               The second John had shut the door to leave for work, Sherlock’s mind sprang into action. Not that it hadn’t been working all morning, but the detective had needed to display the most normal behavior he could for John, as the former soldier was obviously noticing his erratic behavior. John needn’t worry about things that were completely under control. He had been attempting to busy himself with his laptop, looking at all of the cases he couldn’t work on, but apparently his body was (infuriatingly) betraying him still.

               He stared at the screen a moment longer, pondering his next move. He did not _love_ Moriarty. The very idea was absurd. How could any human _love_ such a monster? Besides, neither of the two of them was stupid enough to fall into such a typical trap in the first place. Sherlock wasn’t like that; love wasn’t something he _did_ in the first place. And even if such a situation, _hypothetically_ , were to occur, likely Jim would insist on humiliating his partner. Demeaning them, dominating them. That was something that, love or not, Sherlock would _never_ let happen.

               He needed to be cold. Show Jim that physical touch had no effect on him. He wasn’t going to fall into the criminal’s trap. Not again. But he was still ever so tempted…

               “Looking through more of Johnny’s emails?” Jim challenged halfheartedly.

               Sherlock paused, noting his lack of interest with slight (unexplained) distaste. He had been so ready to banter.

               “…No. As a matter of fact, no,” the detective continued to stare at the screen.

               “Hmm, are we up to more scandalous doings then? Does even the mighty Sherlock Holmes need his once a week dose of busty blondes?” he drawled.

               “Mmmm... no,” Sherlock continued feigning disinterest.

               “Ooh, perhaps you play for another team then?” A fire seemed to ignite in Jim’s eyes as he spoke this, “Maybe you should have called Jim from I.T. then. Taken your chance while you had it…”

               Sherlock paused again before responding, “Perhaps I don’t play for any ‘team’. Perhaps I find physical relationships boring and tedious.”

               Jim felt a smirk creeping onto his features as he responded, “As do I. But I have found one instance in which I have not found it the slight bit tedious.”

               The detective threw a dark glance towards the criminal, “And what was that like? I assume you tied the poor girl to the bed and swore if she told anyone, you’d kill her family?”

               Jim’s developing smile disappeared, “…Nah...don’t be so _ordinary_ , Sherlock. I have made it blatantly obvious up until this point that I prefer men. No one can have _that_ flawless a disguise.”

               The detective gave Moriarty a knowing tilt of the head, “Ah, of course, how foolish of me. You and _he_ engaged in various forms of increasingly disturbing BDSM with you as dom and he as sub before you sent him back to the curb with welts on his arse and teeth marks on his neck.”

               “Actually,” Jim responded in a low, steady voice, “In this particular situation _I_ would be considered the more submissive of the two.”

               “Really?” Sherlock casually responded, “Well I think I may have finally decoded the infamous Jim Moriarty then.”

               Jim’s gaze darkened, “Oh have you?” It wasn’t so much a question as a challenge.

               “Of course I have.”

               “….”

               “Very well,” Jim broke the silence, “Deduce me.” His voice had completely lost its flirtatious drawl, and was now dripping with contempt.

               Sherlock jumped into his deductions; he didn’t need to be told more than once, “Well judging by your relatively thin frame you didn’t eat much as a child, this could be from anxiety, insecurity, depression, or a tough family situation. Or perhaps all of the above? You definitely have the money for food now, and don’t care enough about the opinions of others to stay fit in order to meet typical standards of beauty, therefore, it has to be from your childhood. Thin frame and high voice also probably meant that you were bullied throughout school, hence your hatred for ‘ordinary’ people. That one is quite obvious, I’m not sure why you didn’t just repress it. Or perhaps you didn’t think of that? Likely, Carl Powers was one of your worst enemies at school, and at some point you had had enough of being pushed around and decided to take matters into your own hands. You felt empowered after the murder, and as you didn’t have much control over what your family or peers at school affected in your life, and this is why you ended up in the line of work you did. That, and it was really your only option for a decent career, as in a tough family situation a decent education is out of the question. As for why your intelligence excelled in public school with a family that most likely didn’t give you much attention, you turned to books as your only real source of comfort. These may have been one of your first experiences with crime, am I correct? A poor family would never have had money to buy books, so you learned to steal them. You tend to be lavish, yet simple in your purchases today, because while you enjoy having money for once you never really discovered what exactly it was that you _liked_ , and have little preference or opinion on things that don’t pertain to work. Your relatively thin hair, in addition, would hint that you had some sort of stress disorder, or other mental disorder (not enough to keep you from functioning, of course), that your family never bothered to get you treatment for. Over the years it only worsened as is natural with no other humans to speak to when not under stress. No child with a loving family would have ever ended up like you did. As this issue worsened, you finally started to believe it wasn’t _you_ that was the problem, it was everyone else. That’s why you generalize everyone else into one inferior group that doesn’t matter. Even your own death doesn’t matter to you, because some part of you is still terrified that no one loves you because you’re the problem. You see no real point to life itself, which could almost hint at depression. How do I know this? The disguises, obviously. Richard Brooke and Jim from I.T. were both sensitive, quiet, _human_ personas. Strange that a criminal mastermind would choose two disguises so similar to one another. Although a wise woman once told me, ‘The problem with a disguise is it’s always a self-portrait’. Am I right or wrong?”

               By the end of Sherlock’s tirade, Jim was seething with rage. His heartbeat was accelerated, there was ringing in his ears, and he wanted nothing more than to take a knife to Sherlock’s porcelain skin and spill his blood on the carpet.

               He took a deep breath, attempting to steady himself. Jim knew it was unwise to show Sherlock he had gotten to him, but his temper was already snowballing down a steep slope.

               “You listen to me and you listen closely, Sherlock Holmes,” he said in a dangerously level whisper, “You know nothing about me. Do you understand? _Nothing._ You are nothing. You may think you’re king of the hill, but let me tell you, you will _never_ be better than me in any way, shape, or form. You’re _ordinary_. Do you hear that? _Ordinary._ And I will always be the one to emerge triumphant, my boring little angel. I will always be there to remind you of your place.” It took great effort to keep his voice from shaking with rage.

               Sherlock took a step towards the criminal, smirking, “Then why, if I’m so _ordinary_ , was I able to outsmart you here? Why are you still tied to this chair? Accept the fact that I’ve beaten you. You’re not as special as you say you are. Deep down, you’re just a Richard Brooke.”

               That was the end of the line for Jim, “I WILL KILL YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME? I WILL WATCH AS THE LIGHT DRAINS FROM YOUR EYES!”

               “WHY DON’T YOU THEN?” Sherlock gestured to the room around them, “I’m right here! Where is your web now?”

               “Oh, honey, I don’t think you understand the things I’m going to do to you once I’m out of here. Poor ordinary, fake, Sherlock fell into a tub of broken glass, oh dear me….”

               “I’ve beaten you. Admit it. Clear my name, and maybe I won’t inject any suspicious chemicals into your gums. Then again, I am curious what would happen…”

               “You won’t do it, you don’t have the stomach,” Jim sneered, “You’re _weak_ , Sherlock Holmes. That’s the difference between you and me. I’ll do anything, and you stop when things get a little messy.”

               “Oh do I?” Sherlock marched over the kitchen and grabbed an empty beaker in a tense fist, “Would you care to place a bet?” He brought the end of the glass down on the counter, shattering it and leaving the detective with a jagged weapon. He turned in Jim’s direction.

               “…They don’t love you, you know. John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. None of them do,” even Jim didn’t really know what his objective was anymore, he just knew he wanted the detective angry.

               Sherlock aggressively strode over to where the criminal was tied up, “Of course they do. They’re ‘ordinary’ aren’t they? That’s what they do.”

               “No, Sherlock. Ordinary people don’t love. People don’t love. They’re all animals. Selfish, dirty animals. You just like to _think_ they do, because you’re _desperate_.” He spat out the last part like it was bitter medicine.

               Sherlock brought his arm up with the glass. He knew exactly where he would hit. He pictured the blood running down Jim’s forehead, the friction of glass against skin. Jim would regret saying that.

               Jim braced himself for the blow he knew was coming. He didn’t care at this point. He really didn’t. What was physical pain, anyway? It surely didn’t count coming from such a worthless excuse for a human. How had he ever thought Sherlock different? They were all the same. They all resorted to brute violence in the end. No one cared about intellect. He didn’t care, either.

               Sherlock didn’t even think about it. He wasn’t sure what made him do it. All he knew was that he couldn’t _not_ do it anymore. He dropped the glass.

               Jim’s forehead scrunched in confusion as the glass tumbled to the ground. Before he had time to process this unexpected occurrence, however, Sherlock quickly closed the remaining distance between them, and, lowering himself awkwardly to the criminal’s level, crashed his lips against Jim’s.

               The criminal stiffened in outrage at first, but slowly relaxed into the kiss. All thoughts on the previous argument drained from his mind, to be replaced with a mixture of surprise and curiosity.

               It was like smoking a cigarette after going cold turkey for a week. Only with a touch of the euphoria that came with being high. Only… Sherlock had somehow never felt so in touch with reality. His eyes were closed, yet every detail screamed out at him, telling him how to move next.

               “Sherlock…” Jim murmured into the detective’s mouth. The criminal felt his mind going blissfully blank as their lips moved in synchronization. Everything was Sherlock. Nothing else mattered. He wondered for a fleeting moment if this was what it felt like to be God. Completely at peace with everything. Hyper-aware of the things that mattered and completely indifferent to the things that didn’t.

               As Sherlock continued kissing, a few worrisome thoughts buzzed through his skull. Kissing _Jim Moriarty_ was _pleasing_ to him. He shouldn’t feel as _calm_ as he did right now. As _content_. He decided, however, to push these thoughts away, and moved on to get more comfortable and straddle the criminal, grabbing his shoulder for support.

               Jim’s eyes snapped open as he gasped with pain. Sherlock’s weight on his leg wounds coupled with the pressure on the cuts on his shoulder was too much to stay quiet.

               “Sherlock,” he managed to get in in between kisses. The detective didn’t hear.

               “Sherlock,” Jim repeated a bit more forcefully, “…hurts…”

               That caught the detective’s attention. He immediately broke the contact between their lips, wondering what he had done to make the grimace of pain on the criminal’s face. Then he noticed the tight grip with which he held Jim’s injured shoulder. _He_ had done that. He wondered if the wound was infected. He slowly removed his hand as he scanned for the typical signs of an infection. Moriarty did look rather pale, and the extreme tenderness of his cuts would also point towards infection, though there really would be no way of knowing if he didn’t examine it…

               “…Does that hurt?” Sherlock stared into Jim’s dark eyes as he put his hand back on his shoulder, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the criminal.

               “…Yes,” Jim admitted through clenched teeth, “Legs, too.”

               Sherlock abruptly jumped off of Jim. He had forgotten he was straddling the criminal. The now standing detective stared down at him, debating his next move. Jim stared back, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. Though this wasn’t unbearably hard, as his head was swimming and was on the verge of passing out from both pain and exhaustion.

               On one hand, Sherlock thought, Jim could make a run for it if he untied him. He could find a way to escape, immobilize Sherlock, and John would return home knowing who had freed him. But on the other...

               It wasn’t a hard decision, though Sherlock had a sinking feeling that it should have been. He closed the distance between himself and the criminal in half a second, kneeling in front of Jim.

               The criminal’s heart skipped a beat before he realized what the detective was actually doing. Of course, he was untying him. Jim had to admit he was a bit disappointed, but the image of Sherlock kneeling in front of him was on its own pleasurable.

               Sherlock’s conscience seemed to have given up the fight. His fingers couldn’t move fast enough to unlock the cuffs linking each of Jim’s small ankles to the chair. There was far too much blood involved with this job. He had had no idea it was this bad…

               Jim’s legs were both free. He could do it. He could kick Sherlock in the face right now. He could knock him out; make his escape.

               But for some unfathomable reason, he decided not to.

               Sherlock rushed over to the back of the chair, flipping rapidly through his various keys to find the one that unlocked the cuffs. As he located the one he needed, he paused, the voice in the back of his head taking one last stand. Was he really going to do this?

               He slightly raised himself up to Jim’s level, and quietly murmured, directly in his ear, “If you even _think_ about trying anything, I will personally cut your heart out.”

               Jim allowed himself a small smile, and was grateful that Sherlock was behind him and unable to see it. He slightly turned his head to the side where Sherlock was closest.

               “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured.

               That seemed to be enough for Sherlock, who without a moment’s hesitation unlocked the last cuffs binding Jim to the chair, eliciting a gasp of pain from the criminal, who slumped forward. Sherlock rushed around to the front of the chair to catch him before he hit the floor.

               Throwing one of Jim’s arms around his shoulder, Sherlock attempted to lead him towards the sofa nearest them. Jim tried his best to help, but standing up hadn’t helped with the pain at all and he found himself slipping into unconsciousness, putting his full weight on the detective.


	10. The Mighty Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for self harm.

_“Your crooked love is just a pyramid scheme_

_And I'm dizzy on dreams.”_

_-Fall out Boy_

 

               Moriarty fell onto the couch with a thump and a groan of pain as Sherlock half dropped, half threw him down. He was completely passed out at this point, and the detective took the opportunity to grab a first aid kit from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.

               _Treatment for burns. Disinfectant. Bandages._ The detective rapidly assured that he had everything he needed. Jim likely wouldn’t be out for long and he didn’t want to have to leave the criminal alone to get forgotten supplies.

               He mentally shook his head. He was mad. This was mad. Completely irrational.

               But that didn’t stop him from marching off back to where Jim laid, supplies in hand, as quickly as he could.

*************************************************************************************

               As Jim was coming to, he felt motion in front of his face, and soon recognized the sound of snapping fingers. His mind felt fuzzy, and it took a moment for his eyesight to get readjusted. He blinked a few times, squinting.

               “Good. You’re awake,” Sherlock said curtly. He was all business as he opened the first aid kit, and Jim’s eyes widened at the numerous instruments inside.

               “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded as he rapidly sat up, not liking his vulnerable position.

               Sherlock gave him a quick exasperated glance, “Your wounds are obviously infected. Your burns are causing you a great deal of pain, as are your wrists and ankles from your restraints.”

               “I thought you liked it when I was in pain?” Jim challenged.

               “Change of heart,” Sherlock countered offhandedly. He took some burn medication and bandages out of the kit.

               “Wait,” Jim snarled as Sherlock moved in closer to the burns on his neck.

               “What?” asked a slightly impatient Sherlock.

               “Don’t touch me.”

               Sherlock stared in disbelief a moment. “What?”

               “I said, don’t touch me.”

               “Are you not in pain? I thought you liked it when I touched you. You’ve made that very clear.”

               “I really haven’t, actually. This is a scheme, remember?”

               “This is for your own good. You’re being ridiculous. Is the great Jim Moriarty, criminal mastermind, afraid of first aid?”

               “I’m not _afraid_ ,” Jim growled, “And fine. Go nuts. I just hope you know what you’re doing.” He turned his head to stare at the ceiling, so Sherlock could have better access to his burns.

               “So you had no problem with me inflicting the wounds, but you are affected by the idea of me healing them?” Sherlock inquired.

               “Oh, God, just get on with it already.”

               “Hm. Interesting,” Sherlock mentally filed that away under ‘Moriarty’.

               Jim closed his eyes in annoyance. Of course Sherlock wasn’t going to let this go. The fool would over analyze it as usual.

               Sherlock grabbed a cotton ball from the kit and squeezed some of the medication onto it. He slowly moved in closer to Jim.

               “This is going to hurt,” he warned.

               “I am aware.”

               Without further hesitation, the detective began applying the medication to Jim’s neck, earning a reluctant hiss of pain from the latter.

               They didn’t speak as Sherlock worked. He was finished with the criminal’s burns on his neck and hands in a matter of minutes, and soon moved on to his wrists and ankles, raw and bleeding from the handcuffs.

               It was after Sherlock had finished with both of Jim’s wrists that the former finally broke the silence.

               “Lay down again,” he demanded. Jim reluctantly complied, knowing that Sherlock needed easy access to the wounds encircling his ankles from the cuffs. These were deeper than the ones on his wrists, as the weight of his legs had been resting on the metal for his entire stay in captivity. Unlike the bright red blood and angry chaffing on his wrists, the sticky red on Jim’s ankles was much darker in color, and seemed to go much deeper. Sherlock wondered how Moriarty had even gotten to this point in this condition, and felt a strange emotion stir in the back of his mind.

               Guilt? No, that wasn’t it. He just hated being the one who had caused this possibly permanent damage to Jim. That wasn’t guilt. It was far too selfish.

               The detective pondered this as he rolled up the bottoms of Jim’s pants for better access. The criminal was already barefoot, as during their first torture session he and John had removed his shoes and socks and, quite frankly, couldn’t have been bothered to put them back on. At the time, it had seemed the best idea, since they wanted Moriarty in as much pain as possible.

               Sherlock grabbed the disinfectant spray and, before Moriarty (who looked to be dozing off) could see what he was doing, coated his right ankle with the spray.

               “Ah- MOTHER OF-” Jim jerked upright, “TAKE THAT OFF NOW!”

               “I can’t take it off, it completely defeats the purpose of-”

               “TAKE IT OFF.”

               Sherlock sighed, “For someone so brilliant, you really are a complete idiot. It stings at first, and then it feels fine. Don’t be a child.”

               “’Don’t be a child.’ Yes, that would be quite easy if my leg wasn’t on fire!”

               “It must feel at least a bit better at this point.”

               Jim stared at Sherlock before answering, “…No! Now take it off! God, that idiot of a doctor has really taught you nothing.”

               “What about this? Is this preferable?” Sherlock, fed up, grabbed a roll of bandage out of the kit, and carelessly wrapped an excessive amount around Moriarty’s ankle.

               Jim closed his eyes and fell back down onto his back again. “God help me…” he muttered in disbelief to himself.

               Sherlock gave a huff, “What do you want me to do?” God, he hated dealing with people.

               “Perhaps you should just let me do it,” Jim snarled.

               Sherlock fell silent. Jim really wouldn’t be in much more of a superior position than he was now… but then again, that was still more power in his hands. The detective wasn’t sure why, but he felt he needed to do this.

               Jim listened to Sherlock’s silence with curiosity. Why would Sherlock be so determined to be the one to heal him? He had a brief flashback to his dream of the angel detective, which he quickly pushed away. This was strategy. Sherlock allowing him to heal himself was simply more power in his hands. Plus, he was _so tired_ …

               “Just get on with it then,” Jim sighed, giving in. Sherlock without another word went back to work.

               Moriarty fought to keep silent through the bandaging and disinfecting of his ankles, but he couldn’t help a hiss of pain now and then. His head swam, and at times the only thing anchoring him to consciousness was the feeling of Sherlock’s deft fingers brushing against his skin.

               Finally, they were done, and it was time for the worst injuries. Jim sat up with a grunt, and Sherlock nodded at him to take his suit off.

               This, however, proved to be a far more difficult task than anticipated. The fabric clung to the criminal’s skin with dried blood, and this made removing his clothing not only more difficult, but far more painful.

               Seeing Jim’s wince of pain, Sherlock, impatient as ever, moved to help remove the reluctant fabric. He tried removing one shoulder.

               “MOTHER OF FUCK THAT HURTS!”

               Sherlock continued to tug, and the spots clouding Jim’s vision started to grow in size.

               “STOP IT—SHER--BY GOD,” Jim weakly tried to push the detective’s hand away, to no avail. Sherlock ended up tearing it off the criminal’s skin in one go, and Jim couldn’t hold on to consciousness any longer, falling forwards until Sherlock caught him and shoved him back onto the couch into a sitting position.

               Jim blinked a few times, coming to.

               “ _Never_ do that again,” he said with exhaustion.

               Sherlock, satisfied, tossed the clothes carelessly onto the ground, “Of course.”

               “Westwood,” Jim pointed out with distaste.

               “It’s completely ruined now, covered in bloodstains, unless you like that look. Oh, wait…”

               “Ahaha so clever,” Jim mocked, “You know I’m merely a businessman, Sherlock. You’re the one with the heads in your fridge.”

               “Don’t make me laugh,” Sherlock retorted as he picked up the disinfectant. He wasn’t sure how much good it would do.       

               “Why not?” Jim challenged.

               Sherlock paused for a moment, considering the strange statement, as Jim cursed himself for saying something so… what? He wasn’t even sure why he had said it in the first place.

               “Why not what?” Sherlock decided to see where this was going.

               Jim turned to look at him, “Nothing, just get on with it.”

               The detective slowly turned back to Jim’s injuries, this time with the criminal intently watching him. He opened his mouth to speak once or twice, before finally speaking up.

               “…Why?”

               Sherlock raised his eyes to meet Moriarty’s, and the criminal moved his to the wall before clarifying.

               “Why do this? I can’t seem to find your angle.”

               Sherlock didn’t answer. In fact, he didn’t really have an answer.

               “Did you hear me?”

               The detective sighed, “Yes.”

               “Well?”

               “I don’t have an answer.”

               “Have I perplexed the great Sherlock Holmes?” Jim turned to look at Sherlock again. This time, Sherlock stared him down. He studied the criminal’s dark orbs.

               “…It seems you have,” Sherlock responded in a quiet voice. Jim _did_ perplex him. He always had. Though the detective worried that now he was fascinated with the criminal for different reasons.

               Jim gave a small nod, not dropping Sherlock’s gaze. He looked about to say something, but stopped when something caught his eye.

               Sherlock’s sleeves had shifted as he was tending Jim’s wounds, and in this had revealed a long pink scar.

               Jim, without dropping Sherlock’s gaze, slowly reached over and gently grabbed his wrist. The detective snapped his eyes to where Jim’s slender fingers now rested, but didn’t, to Jim’s surprise, pull away. The criminal, eyes now on Sherlock’s wrist, pulled his sleeve down further to reveal that the scar was not alone. There seemed to be a large supply of faded pink scars covering his arm, and, Jim would wager, the other as well.

               So…the great Sherlock Holmes was a cutter? Jim was a bit shocked—he’d always thought Sherlock to be a posh, conceited brat. These didn’t look recent, perhaps he had gotten over it long ago… but what would cause someone so pokerfaced to lose control in such a… cliché way?

               The criminal’s thought process was interrupted by Sherlock.

               “Enjoying yourself?” he snapped.

               “…No.”

               Sherlock watched as Jim studied the scars, tracing his fingers over them, and tried to ignore the electricity it shot through his veins.

               “Tell me?”

               It was a real question. A request. Jim Moriarty was asking permission. Of course, only because he needed information, right? More knowledge on the weakness of his enemy. Though it was easy to be taken in by the gentle way he traced the small pink lines.

               “I was young. People are stupid, especially as children. You know, the different ones are easily picked out.” He explained it matter of factly.

               “You weren’t stupid. They were stupid. Ordinary people are all savages,” Jim said bitterly.

               “I was extremely stupid. I let them affect me. I permanently disfigured myself because I allowed them to convince me there was something wrong with me. I only wish I had figured out sooner how to push people away.” Sherlock couldn’t help it. He knew he was giving away too much information, but he strangely didn’t care. He hated remembering his childhood; it brought back memories and feelings that he had worked so hard to ignore.

               Jim found it disturbing how much Sherlock was sounding like him. “You went to a posh school.”

               “Believe me, it’s worse at the posh ones.”

               “Honey, I doubt that!” Jim scoffed, remembering his own years at school.

               “Did you…?” Sherlock motioned to his wrist with a nod of his head.

               Jim finally released Sherlock’s wrist, lifting up his own for him to see, “Of course not, _doofus_ , though you’ve had many opportunities to make your own mark there.”

               Sherlock merely stared, apparently expecting a confession of sorts.

               Anger suddenly ignited in Jim’s eyes, “What do you want me to say?! I’m not going to give you a play by play of my childhood! All I will tell you, _Sherlock_ is that the things they did to me… I will personally _skin_ anyone who ever _breathes_ a word of the things they did to me. And then I had to watch as everyone cried over them. Everyone made such a fuss over Carl Powers and his _tragic_ death…”

               “Who is ‘them’?” Sherlock inquired.

               “All of them,” Jim snarled, “Every person on this godforsaken planet, Sherlock. They’re all animals. Dirty animals. I love watching them hurt each other. It’s funny.” He was breathing heavily, and if Sherlock didn’t know better, he would say he was close to tears.

               “I do believe humans are inherently selfish…” Sherlock began, “But there are a few exceptions to the rule.”

               “I have yet to meet one.”

               “I’ve met a few.”

               “Let me guess; John.”

               “Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly…”

               “Molly is _insufferable_ , Sherlock. She watches _Glee_ for God’s sake. I had to watch an entire _episode_ with her. _Forty minutes._ It’s a wonder I didn’t shoot myself there.”

               “She’s the reason I survived the fall,” Sherlock revealed.

               “…Really?” Jim cocked his head to the side, pondering this. Perhaps he had underestimated her. Though, knowing how that girl looked at Sherlock, she probably only did it in the hopes of earning his favor. It was disgusting, in a way.

               “Yes, really.”

               “…Are you going to finish with this?” Jim gestured to his wounds.

               Sherlock nodded, and went back to work, ignoring the way touching Jim’s skin was making his heart beat quicken.

               “…Were there other exceptions?” Jim inquired.

               “How accurate was I in my deductions earlier?”

               “Oh, clever, clever—AH WATCH IT!” he was cut off by Sherlock tending a particularly tender part of his shoulder, “But, you were… accurate.”

               Sherlock didn’t look surprised, “Of course I was,” he said with a smug smirk.

               “Don’t look so pleased, they weren’t that good.”

               “Oh? Which parts were wrong then?”

               Jim didn’t have an answer for that. In point of fact, Sherlock had deduced things about him that he himself hadn’t known. The disguises, for instance. He really needed to work on that.

               “That’s what I thought,” Sherlock acknowledged Jim’s silence.

               Jim stared at Sherlock’s hands as he worked. Studied his dark curls. His lips tingled where he remembered Sherlock’s had touched them earlier. He… was intrigued to say the least. And he had given far too much of himself away already in one day. Sherlock was ordinary, or so he had thought… had he judged wrong?

               Moriarty noticed Sherlock had stopped working to stare at him. God, those eyes, he could just fall into them. And… had they changed colors? He swore they had been green last he saw them.

               Sherlock looked into the criminal’s pale face. He seemed so vulnerable here. Was this the real Moriarty? The one no one ever saw? Did it count as real if no one ever saw it?

               No, he couldn’t lie to himself anymore. Sherlock ached for Jim. They were the same. Two halves of a whole. He couldn’t rationalize it to himself, he only knew that he _cared._

Sherlock leaned in towards Jim with closed eyes, and gently kissed the criminal. Moriarty felt a strange warmth spreading in his chest as Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, and he quickly returned the favor.

               Jim’s heart was beating out of his chest, and he felt overwhelmed by senses. Sherlock’s soft hair, which he now had one hand tangled in (ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder), the detective’s gentle touch, the softness of his lips and skin. It was too much, but too little. He needed more, but part of him wanted to burn off every piece of skin the detective touched.

               He had made himself too vulnerable. He was weak. Ordinary again. He couldn’t let that happen. He abruptly pulled away, refusing to look at Sherlock.

               The detective was hurt, but refused to let it show, he merely went back to silently working on Jim’s wounds. Of course Jim could never love him back. He was too far gone.

               The two didn’t speak again for the rest of the day, though there was one obvious, unspoken elephant in the room.

               Sherlock didn’t know when he had decided to let Jim have such an effect on him, but it was too late to turn back now. He could already feel it. He was developing an _obsession_ , and not the kind he had with cases. He would call it love, but surely the feeling wasn’t mutual. This was one sided; Jim could never love him back, and yet Sherlock felt such a deep longing to learn more about him, to _feel_ him more, to _know_ him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt like this. Or if he ever had. Sherlock wasn’t even sure if Jim was still plotting, or if this was real. He wasn’t _that_ good of an actor. The detective was seeing glimpses of Jim from IT in Moriarty’s twisted gaze. He couldn’t even trust his own senses anymore, or his own observations.

               There really was only one logical conclusion, and it was that he, Sherlock Holmes, was falling hopelessly in love with Jim Moriarty.

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	11. Madness

_“I have finally seen the light_

_And I have finally realized what you mean_

_And now I need to know is this real love_

_Or is it just madness keeping us afloat?”_

_-Muse_

 

               Jim was chained up again, but he couldn’t deny that he felt a great deal better than before. After Sherlock had finished with his wounds, he had given Jim some painkillers (from some sort of stash he kept, apparently), and while Moriarty knew he should be feeling drowsy from all the medication, he couldn’t seem to shut his mind down for the night.

               _Sherlock_ had kissed him. _He_ had initiated it. Jim really couldn’t rationalize that the feeling wasn’t mutual anymore, as Sherlock clearly had at least _some_ sort of returned feelings for him. He wondered if the detective dreamed about him, too. Or just what he dreamed about. _Lord_ , that sounded so ordinary, it made him sick.

               But what if Sherlock was just playing him? He really couldn’t afford to drop his façade, and already he had revealed a dangerous amount of personal weakness. Sherlock could easily use that against him; how had he become so _stupid_?

               But, if Sherlock _did_ return the feelings, then what then? Where would they go from there? Jim wasn’t even sure if this was what he was supposed to be feeling. If this was love, he wasn’t sure if he wanted it. Something that made him so weak was a liability, at best. There was nothing he hated more than looking weak, and being with Sherlock could change him into a completely different person. No one would follow him; his web would collapse (more than it probably was already—he hoped that Sebastian was smart enough to keep things running), and his life’s work would be trashed.

               Then there was the matter of Sherlock’s pet. What would they do with him? Sherlock wasn’t going to just _drop_ him—he cared too much for that. It’s not as if Jim could just hire an assassin; Sherlock would never forgive him.

               He _hated_ caring about people. Things were so much easier when he could just do things. Just do his work and not care about how others felt. All caring had ever done was cause him pain. The world was cruel, and he’d be damned if he didn’t win against it.

               Sherlock really was far too good for him. Too soft. If he actually managed to understand the things that went on in Jim’s mind, he would drop him for sure. His humanity would overpower the more important things, as always. He thought Jim was a monster—a killer for fun. A man who had no remaining humanity, twisted beyond recognition. It made him want to scream, but it really was a hopeless case at this point. Screaming was useless. There was no help for him.

               But then… if Jim thought back to the rare times he _had_ seen Sherlock lose control—when he had seen a bit of himself in his eyes… did that mean that maybe they were more similar than he thought? Perhaps he didn’t know himself enough to recognize his other half. Sherlock was very determined; prepared to do anything. What if… what if he was just like Jim in other respects, too?

               Jim felt a twinge of regret in pulling away from their earlier kiss so quickly. He really had screwed that up. Sherlock likely thought he wasn’t interested, thanks to that. Looking back on their discussion earlier that day, Jim remembered saying a lot of things that would make it seem that he wasn’t interested. He thought, with a glimmer of hope, that maybe Sherlock would just drop the whole thing entirely. They could both go back to their old lives, and perhaps Jim could die in a dramatic assassination. Or perhaps he would shoot himself before it could happen. He hated to admit it, but a life without Sherlock seemed dreadfully dull.

               Then there was the physical aspect of it. Jim had, up until this point, considered himself asexual. Sherlock’s hair, his skin, his everything, gave Jim reason to believe otherwise. He had never desired a true romantic affair with another person before. Relationships were a nuisance. They were all horribly depressing. All doomed to end the same way. And Jim would rather spend his time on something worthwhile.

               Although with Sherlock it was something different. Sherlock wasn’t boring at all. He was more than intriguing, he was addicting. Really, everything about him was. What used to be a morbid, hateful obsession had, at _some_ point, developed into much more affectionate feelings. Sherlock was… he was brilliant. And he was so similar to Jim… he cared about things that _mattered_. He had never really realized how much he loved to watch the detective deduce things; reach conclusions at speeds that no one else in the world could. He was driven, intelligent, but then he also was gentle; a trait that Jim, only in the deepest recesses of his mind, was able to admit he liked. He was a puzzle; a puzzle that Moriarty _longed_ , more than anything, to take apart and discover. Only this time… instead of mashing the pieces together, he would put them in the correct places. Though it was terrifying, not knowing what the final picture made would be.

               Perhaps he would try it, and see where it went. Just out of curiosity.

*************************************************************************************

               Sherlock tromped down the stairs, yawning, ready to relieve John of his shift watching Jim. It certainly was going to be an interesting night. He hoped the criminal was sleeping and he wouldn’t have to deal with him.

               “Sleep well?” John asked, getting up from where he sat with his laptop.

               “Not particularly,” Sherlock replied, thinking of the dream he had had, once again, about Jim.

               “Of course. ‘Night.”

               “Mm.”

               As John made his way up the stairs, Sherlock pretended to be engrossed in something on his laptop. He didn’t stop once the former soldier had shut his bedroom door, and felt Moriarty’s gaze on him.

               After a minute of silence, Jim spoke up.

               “How are you keeping your lack of progress from him?” the criminal inquired.

               Sherlock sighed, closing his laptop, “It’s not overwhelmingly difficult.”

               “In theory, it’s not, but lying to your best friend cannot be easy.”

               Sherlock redirected his gaze to the chains around Jim’s ankles.

               “Do you want those off for the night?” he asked tiredly. He felt like he needed to go back to bed.

               “Yes.”

               Sherlock got up from where he sat and promptly removed Jim’s cuffs. The criminal carefully stood up, swaying a little, but keeping his footing.

               “Can you walk?” the detective asked in a toneless voice.

               “Yes,” Jim copied his tone and made his way to the couch, lying down gingerly.

               “You should probably eat something.”

               “An apple sounds good right about now,” Jim halfheartedly joked.

               Sherlock frowned, “Is that supposed to be funny?”

               “I think it’s funny.”

               “You think a lot of morbid things are ‘funny’,” Sherlock snapped, remembering the pain and confusion leading up to the fall, and afterwards.

               “Are you _still_ sore about that?” Jim looked up at Sherlock, who was leaning on an armchair nearby. He knew precisely what he was referring to.

               “Sore isn’t the correct word for the situation. I don’t think you realize how much you hurt people.”

               “Most of them deserve it,” Jim said matter of factly.

               “So you admit, at least some of them don’t deserve to be killed, or tortured, or whatever else you do.”

               “…You didn’t deserve it,” Jim said quietly.

               The statement rang in Sherlock’s ears. Did Jim really feel remorse for what he had done?

               “I--,” Sherlock struggled to formulate words as he studied Jim, “Why me?”

               “You’re me, remember? Only—better.”

               Sherlock wasn’t sure what to say, “How… and… how am I better?” He narrowed his eyes, wondering if Jim was really being sincere.

               Moriarty sighed. How to begin?

               “Would you like a list?” he asked sarcastically.

               “I wasn’t aware there was enough to make a list,” Sherlock said softly. His expression had changed from one of cynicism to a much gentler look.

               “There’s enough to make more than one list, honey.”

               Sherlock remained silent. He didn’t know what to say. Things like this didn’t happen to him. That just wasn’t the way the world worked. It wasn’t how his life went. He stared into Jim’s dark eyes with what he hoped was a caring expression.

               “You don’t repulse me, Sherlock Holmes. I feel a need to tell you my… obsession with you may not have been of the nature you, or I, thought it was.”

               Sherlock was struggling to make sense of this, Jim couldn’t possibly be suggesting what he thought he was, “Go on,” he managed to get out.

               Jim closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again and continuing, “You… attract me, Sherlock. In ways that I hadn’t really thought… possible.”

               Sherlock struggled to speak, “…Oh…”

               “And I really don’t mind if you don’t feel the same way, honestly, but I feel a need to tell you. Because really, Sherlock, you are me. It’s not as if I’m going to find anyone else.”

               “…”

               “I used to think it was a hateful thing, I thought I hated you, Sherlock. But I think what I really hated was the idea that you were too good for me. That I’d never get a chance to…” Jim trailed off.

               Sherlock finally found his voice again, “I’ve been having dreams about you.”

               Jim couldn’t help but grin, “Oh? What kind of dreams, Sherlock Holmes?”

               “Boring, ordinary. Nothing special.”

               “You sure about that?”

               “Completely sure.”

               “Because I had some rather interesting ones involving you.”

               “Tell me,” Sherlock straightened up from his position on the chair and moved to kneel by where Jim lay on the couch.

               Jim sat up so his and Sherlock’s faces were barely centimeters apart, then whispered, “Why don’t you _deduce_ it instead?”

               Sherlock was on top of Jim before either one knew what happened. Their lips met, and this kiss was not quite as gentle as the last. Sherlock was a clumsy kisser, but his hands made up for it. Jim struggled to keep track of what his own were doing, Sherlock’s were so distracting. He had one caressing the side of Jim’s face, fingers in his hair, thumb moving in circles. The other he was using to comfort Moriarty’s left shoulder, gently tracing over where he had inflicted his wrath on the criminal what seemed so long ago.

               Jim had one hand laced intricately in Sherlock’s hair, and with the other held the neckline of the detective’s shirt, attempting to draw him in impossibly closer. Their lips danced together, Jim reigning in Sherlock’s more desperate ones.

               Sherlock, as an experiment, decided to try giving a small nip to Jim’s lips as their bodies writhed together. This earned a startled yet pleased gasp from Moriarty, who proceeded to return the favor.

               All that ran through either mind was the other. Both were equally frustrated that they hadn’t just given in sooner, and their kisses grew increasingly desperate as their lips became bruised with desire.

               Jim delivered a particularly hard bite to Sherlock’s neck, actually drawing a small amount of blood, which the criminal proceeded to lick up, earning a deep moan from an increasingly aroused Sherlock.

               The two angels, dark and light, writhed together in the dark, one being. The only noises to be heard were hands brushing fabric and skin, and a pleased grunt or sigh once in a while.

               “Sherlock--” Jim tried to get a word in in between the detective’s kisses.

               “Mm?” Sherlock murmured against Jim’s lips.

               “We-… stop for the night… mm… John.”

               That caught Sherlock’s attention, and he relented in his assault on Jim’s lips.

               “As much as I am thoroughly enjoying this, it will be harder to enjoy if John’s watching, no?” Jim joked with a sly smile.

               Sherlock sighed, staring into Jim’s chocolate eyes. He probably had a point. And he didn’t know how long they had until morning.

               “Fine,” he rolled his eyes, “What do you expect me to do until morning?”

               “You could sleep. I promise I won’t blow the place up.”

               “John would worry if he woke up and I was asleep on watch.”

               “True…” Jim acknowledged, not adding that he didn’t care particularly for John’s feelings, “You could go through John’s emails.”

               “I’ve read all of them up to date.”

               Jim sighed, “Well you have a computer. For God’s sake use it. The world is your oyster.”

               “I think you give too much credit to a piece of plastic,” Sherlock remarked as he got up to fetch his laptop.

               “Oh I beg to differ, Sherly, there’s hours of entertainment at your fingertips with that machine,” Jim smiled as he sat up.

               “I sincerely hope you’re not talking about what I think you are.”

               “Give that to me,” Jim said, holding his hands out for the laptop. Sherlock smirked and gave it to Jim before planting himself on the couch shamelessly close to the criminal.

               “Now, let’s see if I can guess your password.”


	12. Secrets

_“Tell me what you want to hear_

_Something that'll light those ears_

_I'm sick of all the insincere_

_So I'm gonna give all my secrets away.”_

_-OneRepublic_

 

               After about two hours of hacking Mycroft’s email account, Sherlock and Jim had eventually decided on going to sleep and setting an alarm for an hour before John would be getting up. It took them a while to find a comfortable position on the couch, but eventually they both settled in and fell asleep.

               Finally, at precisely 4:00 a.m, the alarm went off, blaring on the second highest volume setting.

               “Oh, God, why _that_?” Jim rolled over to press his face into the back of the couch. He had never been fond of any of the preset ringtones Apple had to offer.

               “Ss wrong with it?” Sherlock slurred as he felt on the floor for his phone.

               “Everything.”

               Sherlock grunted as he lifted the phone from the floor and shut off the alarm. He wasn’t used to getting this much sleep, and actually felt more tired than if he had just stayed up.

               He slowly got himself off the couch, turning around to where Jim now lay on his back, staring up at the detective.

               “Do I have to?” the criminal grimaced.

               “Only for an hour,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, holding out a hand to help Jim up, which the criminal took.

               Soon James was chained up again, pretending to be indifferent to Sherlock’s presence, as the detective clicked through all the possible cases he had bookmarked on his laptop since the fall.

               “Morning,” John sighed as he entered the living room. His eyes quickly flicked over to where Moriarty was captive, just to check that he was still there and restrained. Jim didn’t acknowledge it.

               “Morning,” Sherlock replied, glancing away from the screen.

               John walked into the kitchen, “Want some tea?” he called.

               “No, thank you,” Sherlock pretended to be distracted, though he was monitoring John’s every move.

               “Actually,” Sherlock changed his mind, getting up, “I’ll take some.”

               John was slightly surprised, but didn’t say anything. Tea wasn’t the thing most weighing on his mind today. As soon as Sherlock was standing close enough to hear, John motioned him closer.

               “How are things going?” he murmured, concerned.

               “Progress is being made; he’s opened up about more personal details than I’d thought that he would. Nothing that would on its own count as a confession, though.”

               “That’s good, but Sherlock we can’t keep this up forever.”

               “I know we can’t. I’m working on it.”

               “I worry about you. There was noise last night…”

               “I can handle myself perfectly well, John. I’m in control. Do you not see him tied up? Wounded?”

               “He’s smart, Sherlock. And he’s a psychopath. He’ll do whatever he needs to get to you.”

               “He’s not better than I am. I know how to play games, John,” Sherlock snipped, pride slightly hurt.

               “I know but—what happened to your neck?” John’s gaze had redirected from Sherlock’s face to where Jim had bitten him last night.

               “What about my neck?” Damn, he should have remembered to cover that up.

               “It looks like… teeth marks,” John observed, perplexed. Jim’s heart skipped a beat as he heard from the other room.

               “That’s completely illogical, John. Who would have put them there? Besides, this was from an experiment.”

               John wasn’t convinced, but he let it drop, “I still don’t… okay. Whatever you say. I’m going now,” he glanced at the clock, “I want this done as much as you do, but we need to be careful.”

               “Of course,” Sherlock looked down at his tea, deep in thought. John grabbed his coat and shut the door.

*******************************************************************************

               Sherlock waited a moment before turning to Jim, “You should probably eat something.”

               Jim sighed, “Ah, yes, let me just march over into the kitchen and-”

               “Point made,” Sherlock was already at Jim’s side, turning the key in the lock, “Have a particular taste for anything?”

               “How sweet of you,” Jim said caustically, “Are you this kind to all of your captives?” Sherlock walked to the kitchen, considering his response before saying anything.

               “You and I both know you’re not exactly a traditional captive,” the detective was now searching the cabinets for any form of edible substance.

               “You flatter me,” Jim said sarcastically, “Though from the looks of your friend, I’d say you don’t do a satisfactory job of feeding your other prisoners.” When Sherlock gave him a confused look, Jim nodded towards the skull on the mantelpiece.

               “We have nothing in; I’m ordering Thai,” Sherlock picked up the phone, not really caring about Jim’s input anymore. Or the fact that it was 8 in the morning.

               “Fine,” Jim was now examining the various trinkets adorning the mantelpiece, memorizing each and every detail. He wondered what the stories behind some of them were. There was the skull, an assortment of dead animals preserved in a glass case, a dagger holding down a stack of papers… hm.

               Curiosity getting the better of him, Jim (with slight difficulty), removed the dagger and, after examining it a moment, set it down and picked up the stack of papers.

               Moriarty winced; they appeared to just be miscellaneous things that Sherlock had stuck together, with no better place to put them. It baffled him how someone could be as brilliant as Sherlock and have such poor organizational skills. Nevertheless, he decided to go through them, as Sherlock was still distracted and on the phone.

               The first paper was rather crisp and flat, as if it had been barely handled.

               _Washington, USA_

_Seattle Area_

_9 residents_

_6 months_

_5 adpt._

               A case, no doubt. It must have been newly developed, but untouched because of the detective’s situation. The next paper was much more worked with. It seemed the detective had been carrying it with him a lot. It was slightly torn and looked to have suffered a lot of abuse.

               _Blood_

_Lighter_

_Rock salt windows & doorframe_

_Unknown substance (black; powder)_

_White Springs, Pennsylvania_

Underneath that was drawn a strange sort of symbol. It consisted of a circle topped with a triangle, and numbers and letters surrounding it. Perplexing, he had to admit. It didn’t look like any gang symbol Jim had ever seen before, and it certainly wasn’t one of his.

               The next few papers were various receipts, chemical formulas (quite complicated, Jim had to admit), and news articles.

               The last sheet had three phone numbers.

               _954-482-4052_

_949-777-2635_

_243-465-4955_

The last one looked strangely familiar. He pondered for a moment before realizing it was Irene Adler’s. So Sherly was sentimental then. It was rather cute that he still kept it, actually.

               “You do know it’s considered rude to go through people’s things without asking.”

               Damn. He hadn’t noticed Sherlock was off the phone.

               Rather than acknowledge what the detective had said, instead he inquired, “Why do you still have Miss Adler’s number?”

               Sherlock fought to keep a poker face, “Call me sentimental.”

               “So you’ll call a dead woman but you won’t give Jim from IT a call?”

               “Jim from IT is ordinary, remember?”

               “Well I’m sure he would have been special to you,” Jim mock pouted as he put the papers into a neat stack, “You really need a better organizational system, you know.”

               “I know where everything is.”

               “I’m sure you do,” Jim said absentmindedly, turning the dagger over and over in his hands. Sherlock eyed it suspiciously. This wasn’t overlooked by Jim.

               “What’s wrong, Sherly?” a Chershire cat grin spread across Jim’s face, “Don’t you trust me?”

               “The events of the next few seconds will play a determining role in that,” Sherlock couldn’t believe he had been so stupid. Jim could kill him now. So easily. Even after last night, he really had no reason to put his full trust in Jim. He prepared to defend himself, taking note of Jim’s every breath.

               Jim, to his relief, didn’t seem to have murder on his mind today. He instead decided to lick the entire length of the blade, looking Sherlock in the eye for the entire time he did so. Promptly handing the blade over, he asked, “Do you happen to know what those markings mean?”

               “No. I searched and searched but couldn’t find anything. They look old, but no one at the museum nor any of my other resources had any idea what they were.”

               “Hm. They make for an interesting design, nonetheless.”

               After a moment of silence, Jim continued, “Where did you find it?”

               “Found it in an alley when I was younger. It was soaked in blood, but there was no body to be found. I thought it was interesting, so I kept it.”

               Intriguing. Jim would have to bother Sherlock about that more some other time.

               Jim spun on his heel to face the fireplace, “Do these have a story as well?”

               “Yes. Though they’re not all quite as exciting.”

               “Tell me,” Jim demanded, his eyes glittering as he turned back to the detective.

               Just at that moment, their food arrived. After fetching their meal, Sherlock and Jim sat back down to eat and discuss.

               “You were saying.”

               “Which would you like to hear about?” Sherlock asked absentmindedly, staring at his food.

               “The skull.”

               “Taken from the morgue when I first moved here. The body was going to be cremated. It wasn’t missed,” Sherlock answered matter of factly.

               Jim nodded, not caring about why Sherlock wanted to carve a skull out of a dead body, “And the dead animal case?”

               “Gift from the museum. I solved a case that saved them money and that was their way of repaying me. That was before the damn hat business started,” he added under his breath.

               “Hat business?” Jim raised an eyebrow.

               “Yes, the damn hat with the ear flaps that they always photograph me in!”

               “…”

               “Oh for God’s sake,” Sherlock leapt up from the couch, grabbing the hat off the top of a stack of papers, “ _This_ hat.” He threw it to Jim like a frisbee, and the criminal, caught off guard, barely caught it before it fell into his food.

               “Does it really bother you that much?” Jim smirked, examining the deerstalker. He found it rather amusing that Sherlock held such a hatred for an article of clothing.

               “Yes. Now enough about me,” he grabbed the hat from Jim and threw it back across the room, “Let’s talk about you.” The words sounded oddly menacing to James.

               “What do you want to hear?” Jim asked glumly.

               “Why such a grand, complex plan to kill me? Why not just get a sniper to take me out?”

               “You deserved better than to die by sniper, Sherlock. And if you were just shot, you would have still had your reputation, your dignity.” Jim regretted the words as soon as they were out.

               “Do you wish it had worked?”

               “Sherlock…”

               “Answer me.” There would be no bullshitting this, Sherlock’s tone made that very clear.

               “…No. But Sherlock you need to understand…I’m not sure what I want. Or why I did it. Of course, there was the fact that you threatened my empire, but that really wasn’t the entire reason. All I know is that it was the most important thing to me at the time. It was my top priority.”

               Sherlock nodded, studying Jim. He really wasn’t surprised by the answers. Why then, was he still so touched by Jim’s regret of the event? Especially when it could easily be a lie.

               “I was already questioning things on the rooftop,” Jim admitted.

               “No need to sugarcoat things. You are my nemesis, aren’t you?” Sherlock didn’t want to be treated like a child.

               “I’m not ‘sugarcoating’ anything,” Jim snapped, “As soon as you said ‘you are me’… I almost dropped the entire thing. I almost considered doing it.”

               “And why didn’t you?”

               “You know me, Sherly. I’m far too stubborn, even with myself. I could never divert from such a well organized plan. And over the years I’ve learned that emotions are rubbish.”

               “You seem to be contradicting your actions of recent days with that statement,” Sherlock eyed the criminal.

               “…Perhaps. Though I would say the virgin hasn’t exactly been acting like a virgin the past few days, either. Don’t think I don’t see that little glimmer in your eye. The one you think no one sees,” Jim smirked knowingly.

               Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Oh, please. It’s not as if you’re Mr. Sex yourself.”

               “Yes, but only because getting physical is extremely boring with the ordinary people. Tried it twice, Sherly, with both sexes. Everyone’s exactly the same. And it’s far too messy for my taste,” he wrinkled his nose, “ _You_ on the other hand, seem to have some urges that you’ve been merely pushing aside for _far_ too long,” the criminal winked.

               Not caring anymore about the accuracy level of Jim’s statement, Sherlock responded, “Thin ice,” as a warning with a steely glint in his eye. While he too had been quite repulsed by the idea of relationships until this point, Sherlock was slightly worried about how things would go if he got to the point of sex with Jim. Though sex wasn’t even the most intimidating part. What seemed the most off putting to him was the _foreplay._ Honestly, he didn’t understand why they couldn’t just cut to the chase. _That_ was the part he dreaded; the part he was sure he would fail at. Perhaps Jim was the same way, but if Sherlock was truthful with himself he knew that the criminal would want to be more traditionally intimate. It was quite worrying.

               Jim let the point drop, and instead decided on another tricky subject, “Tell me about your brother.”

               Sherlock stiffened, “Why?”

               “Because we’re making conversation, and as stated last night I _enjoy_ your company.”

               “Why does that require learning about my brother?”

               “Because I’m interested in you.”

               Sherlock debated this for a minute. He wasn’t 100% on this.

               “Fine,” he finally agreed, “But you have to tell me about _your_ childhood as we go.”

               “Deal,” Jim answered blankly.

               Sherlock sighed, “Mycroft… we had a bit of a childhood rivalry. As children he was the favorite. He was so _insistent_ on following every single rule. I on the other hand was the problem child. My parents were disappointed in me because I had the intelligence to be ‘going places’ but didn’t use it in a way they deemed proper. They sent me to therapy several times for dissecting dead animals. Thought they were housing a future serial killer. As we got older, Mycroft and I clashed more. He was every teacher’s favorite, I almost never did any homework. I was failing almost every class. As the situation with my peers got worse, I was less tolerant of his condescending attitude. I got more detentions in a year than he did in his entire school career. Once we were adults, I was the drug addict, going nowhere in life, and he was the successful politician with powerful friends. I came to him for help, and he told me I was beyond it; that I shouldn’t have waited so long. I never forgave him for not being there when I had no one else.” Before Sherlock could stop himself, he had spilled out his entire life story.

               Jim paused for a moment, taking this in, “And your parents?”

               “They didn’t care about what I was going through. They thought it was a rebellious faze. They were both idiots,” the detective said bitterly.

               “Mine too,” Jim nodded eagerly, “I bet mine were worse.”

               “How so?” Sherlock’s interest was piqued, though he said it monotonously.

               Jim could read him like a book, “No need to pretend that you’re not interested in what caused the monster,” he said darkly, “For my blood parents, I had an abusive father and a drunken whore for a mother. Maybe if she curbed her sex addiction a little bit, he wouldn’t have beaten her so much,” he snarled.

               “Coping. Just like what I did,” Sherlock felt a need to defend the mother. He wasn’t going to blindly agree to everything Jim said.

               “It wasn’t FAIR!” Jim stood up from the couch, seething, “Do you know what that brute did to us because of her? He wasn’t even drunk! At least then he would have had an excuse. I had to _watch_ as he ‘taught her a lesson’ every single day! I was _seven_ , Sherlock! That’s not normal! That’s when I started to realize I wasn’t ordinary. And my father confirmed my suspicions. He _killed_ my sister, Sherlock. I _helped him hide the body_. My _baby_ sister. He was too rough with her and said he’d kill me too if I didn’t help him do it. Where was my mother? Drunk, as usual. Passed out on the floor like a beached whale. She didn’t even question him when he said she’d run away. She would rather listen to a ridiculously unbelievable lie than look for the hard truth. I knew I was special, then. That’s when I knew I was better than them. There had to have been some mistake, right? So I started experimenting on bugs and small animals, and I realized I had magic powers. I could make them twist and dance whatever way I wanted if I used enough force with a blade or flame. I learned power then, Sherlock. That’s when I learned what power was. But I had no idea how far power could really take me. I abandoned it when a later foster family told me it was ‘bad’ to hurt animals. I believed them like a fool.”

               Jim looked completely deranged by the end of his rant. Sherlock was breathing heavily, startled by the outburst, and he attempted to steady his breath before Jim noticed. He stared up at the criminal. _That’s what people do_ … it made sense now. His loss of control at the pool. Obsession with flame; manipulation.

               “Say something,” Jim snarled. His eyes were murderous.

               “Sit down,” Sherlock commanded. It wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t gentle, either.

               Jim stood there for a moment. He could grab that dagger off of the mantle and kill Sherlock now. He was completely vulnerable. He would send it right through that pretty skull. Watch the blood drip down, hear the sickening crack of the detective’s cranium.

               He slowly sat down. He hated this. It would be so much simpler to kill Sherlock. So much easier. Perhaps he would get up now and fetch the knife. He closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair. He felt Sherlock’s eyes on him. This for some odd reason calmed his nerves, and Jim sighed, opening his eyes and turning to the detective.

               “Would you like to hear about the others?”

               “Yes,” Sherlock assumed he meant foster parents.

               “I was moved to foster care at age 8. My first new ‘family’ if you can call it was a young couple who didn’t know what they were doing. They were out of money in half a year. The bitch spent half on jewelry and the bastard spent the other half on porn. After them, there was one of my least favorites. They were one of those ‘overly happy’ families if you will. Believed too much in ‘saving everyone’. They were religious freaks. Church was unbelievably tedious. They didn’t even give me a choice. I had to _pretend_ that Jesus was my savior, hallelujah, etc, or else I was told off in the most _condescending_ way. I swear to God, Sherlock, if I had murdered one of their own children, they wouldn’t have cared. They would have found a way to say, ‘there’s still hope for you’ and would have cried tears of joy that their son or daughter was sitting on a cloud somewhere. When, in reality, they’d be rotting in the dirt. I don’t see the comfort. Of course they all walked around with beaming smiles on their faces, kissing one another on the cheek and whatnot, but sometimes I wonder what happened behind closed doors in that house. They were a very secretive bunch. Always kept things on the down low. If they didn’t want you to know something, you didn’t know,” he paused, remembering.

               “Continue,” Sherlock prompted.

               “The last one was when I was 15. I only stayed there a year before I ran away and was on my own. They had two kids who were theirs already. I’m not sure why the hell they chose to adopt, or adopt me for that matter. They weren’t horrible. Mostly left me alone. I started to really get into crime that year, so before they could kick me out for not being their dream child I left of my own accord.”

               “I see.”

               This was what Jim loved about Sherlock. He said the _perfect_ thing every time. No sugar coating, no ‘I’m sorry’ would fix this, and he knew it. This was what separated him from the ordinary people.

               “What was your sister’s name?” the detective asked.

               Jim hesitated before answering, “Mary.”

               “Pretty name,” Sherlock said, getting up, “Was your first family religious?”

               “I think they considered themselves.”

               “Are you? Today?” Sherlock strolled over to the mantelpiece.

               “Of course not. Do I look like a _doofus_ to you, Sherlock?” Jim said incredulously.

               “Most definitely not,” he said absentmindedly.

               “…Are you?” Jim was suddenly concerned he’d insulted the detective. He desperately hoped not. He’d heard Sherlock swear in God’s name, but he himself did that, and he didn’t believe. It was difficult to tell if Sherlock was the type for faith. He worried the detective might give him a nasty surprise.

               “No. Of course not,” Sherlock answered. “It will always perplex me that humans find such a need to merely _hope_ that there is a magical better place out there, rather than improve what they _know_ is real,” he traced the markings on the dagger absentmindedly.

               Jim mentally sighed with relief.

               “I think, if anything, _people_ are God, Jim,” Sherlock continued.

               Jim stiffened, giving Sherlock a questioning look.

               “The ones you care about, at least,” Sherlock said, making his way slowly back to the sofa, “John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, even a bit of Mycroft, no matter how I dislike it, and you. You all are my God. That and the work is all I need. I don’t need a promise of a cloud.” The detective rarely made statements of affection like this, but when he did, he meant every word.

               The detective was right next to the sofa by now, and Jim put a hand on his arm, gently pulling him down to eye level with him. Black orbs penetrated icy grey.

               “You’re my God, Sherlock,” Jim said with absolute conviction, “My angel. You alone. You alone save me.”


	13. Let’s Kill Tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for violence/gore.

_“May your feet serve you well and the rest be sent to hell_

_Where they always have belonged, cold hearts brew colder songs_

_Fate will weigh us out with a song of pure romance”_

_-Panic! At The Disco_

 

               The next few days followed the same pattern as the previous. John would leave, and Sherlock and Jim would spend the day attempting to entertain themselves through talking, chemistry, or whatever else could be found in the flat. However, as Jim got stronger and they fell into routine, both men felt themselves increasingly bored. By the third day, Sherlock was considering setting fire to something, but didn’t want to give Ms. Hudson a reason to storm in on them.

               “I know what we need,” Jim said one afternoon. He was sprawled out on the couch while Sherlock was taking all of the books off of their shelves, removing their sleeves if they had them, and putting them back.

               “What is that?” Sherlock drawled.

               “Don’t pretend you don’t know it too, Sherly,” Jim grinned, “We need a case, do we not?”

               “I think you and I run different types of investigations,” Sherlock said coldly, not looking away from the books.

               Jim got up from the sofa, lazily strutting towards Sherlock. He stopped directly behind the detective, and Sherlock sharply inhaled when the criminal took hold of his hands, pressing himself into the detective’s back as he did so.

               “That we do,” Jim had to stand on tiptoes to whisper it to the detective, but it achieved the desired response. Sherlock turned his head to the side, listening intently.

               “And so, we would have to choose one, would we not?” he said in a clipped tone.

               Jim nodded, stepping away from the detective, who turned around.

               “Yes,” he said, “Indeed, Sherlock. And I can tell you firsthand which one is more fun.”

               “Out of the question,” Sherlock’s eyes of ice pierced into Jim’s.

               “Don’t tell me you’ve never considered it, Sherly,” Jim’s eyes glittered with mischief.

               “I never said that,” Sherlock admitted.

               “Then why not, just once, give into temptation?” the criminal was looking more like Moriarty than he had in a while. It was slightly unnerving.

               “There is no temptation,” Sherlock said defensively.

               “Oh, but there is, Sherlock,” Jim was making his way towards the detective again, “Just once, wouldn’t it be neat to be on the other side of the crime scene?” He slipped his hands into Sherlock’s pockets, sending a jolt of electricity through the detective. “I do think my side is a tad _sexier_.”

               Sherlock couldn’t deny, he was tempted. He _had_ often wondered what Jim’s side would be like, and he had to admit that if he wasn’t a detective, he would be in Jim’s place right now. It was hard to ignore how close the other man was to him at the moment. His mind kept getting sidetracked by the warmth of Jim’s hands in his pockets, against his legs. Of course, the criminal probably knew this was the easiest way to get what he wanted.

               Ordinary people hadn’t exactly shown Sherlock kindness for most of his life. Perhaps it was time for a taste of what they had paid for. It was twisted logic, but did that make it incorrect?

               “Fine,” he hissed, not wanting to give Jim too much satisfaction.

               “Lovely,” Jim chirped, retreating from the detective, “Show them all you’re not the ordinary type, Sherlock. Now, I shall require my phone.” He held out a hand.

               Sherlock reluctantly fetched Jim’s phone from within a cabinet, where it was hidden. As Jim attempted to take it from his hand, however, he jerked back.

               “ _I’ll_ hold it,” Sherlock said, “Just tell me what to dial.”

               Jim rolled his eyes, “Al _right_. But you’re no fun.” He gave Sherlock the number, and someone picked up on the second ring.

               “ _Boss??”_ the voice from the other end said.

               “Hello Sebastian,” Moriarty said in a menacing voice, “How are you?”

               “ _Fi- Fine. How- are you okay?”_

“I can handle myself. Tell everyone Daddy’s fine,” Jim snapped, “I trust you’ve kept everything running and in order, yes?”

               “ _Of course!”_ Sherlock frowned upon hearing this; Jim’s network didn’t seem to have suffered at all.

“Lovely,” Jim drawled, “I have a job for you.”

               “ _Yes, boss?”_

“You remember the last thing I was working on before I was…sidetracked?” Jim drawled.

               _“Yeah.”_

Jim rolled his eyes at Sherlock, “Yes, good. Can you _prove_ you know it?” He really didn’t have time for Sebastian’s stupidity today.

               _“It was that woman who wanted to start over. Leave her family, job, everything. She wanted her husband dead. Cheated on her or something…”_

“Perfect!” Jim interrupted, “Now, text me her number, will you?”

               _“Sure thing, boss.”_

“Good. I will text you when she has confirmed that she wants it tonight. I trust that she forwarded you the money?”

               _“Of course, boss.”_

“Delicious,” Jim grinned, “Thank you very much, Seb,” his voice was coated with sugar, “And hopefully, it’ll be show time soon.”

               _“Alright.”_

“Oh! And there is one more thing, Seb.”

               _“What is it, boss?”_

“Sherlock and I are thinking about doing some of the dirty work ourselves, today-”

               _“Boss, did you say Sher-”_ Sebastian interrupted, and quickly shut himself up, realizing his mistake.

               Jim tsked at the sniper’s rudeness, “Sebby, another mistake like that and I may have to replace you. Do be careful.”

               _“I’m sorry boss, but Sher-”_

“I KNOW, IT’S SHERLOCK!” Jim was suddenly hollering, “Did I stutter, Sebastian?”

               _“No, boss…”_

“Good. Now, Sherlock and I will deal with the husband, and the restaurant. I would like you to be nearby in case things go wrong. And of course, to help keep things quiet if it gets messy. Your priority is to get Sherlock and I out of there if there is a problem, but don’t interfere with what we are doing while we are there.”

               _“Sure thing, boss.”_

“Lovely,” Jim hung up the phone and cracked his knuckles, turning to Sherlock with the ghost of a smirk, “This should be fun, Sherly. I’d like to see you be bad for once…”

               Sherlock pocketed the phone, glaring at the criminal. He really wasn’t 100% on this. It was suspicious that Jim would want to be so hands on with such an unimportant case. He struggled to find an angle. What if they got there and a bag was put over his head? This could still all be a plot to kill him.

               “You think this is a plot to kill you,” Jim read Sherlock’s thoughts, studying his facial expression.

               “You’re really not the ‘star crossed lover’ type,” Sherlock said plainly.

               Jim gave a small nod, “But neither are you,” he said defensively. It was a quiet threat.

               “True. One could argue I have a tad more empathy, though.”

               “That’s where you’re wrong, Sherly. You and I are going to frame someone for murder. And you’re going to _like it_ ,” Jim was slowly making his way to the mantelpiece. He smirked to himself as he said the last line, looking over his shoulder at the still unsure detective. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it was a turn on, Sherlock being so innocent. So perfectly corruptible.

               He turned back to the mantel, removing the dagger from its position pinning down the stack of papers, and began walking back towards Sherlock, an unreadable expression written on his face.

               Sherlock could read it fine, actually. To him, it read ‘psychopath’. He recognized the hungry look in Jim’s eyes. Those were a predator’s eyes, circling their prey. Jim grinned, revealing sharp teeth. Sherlock had never realized how white they were.

               Yes, he looked menacing, indeed. In fact, Sherlock couldn’t remember ever being _this_ intimidated by Jim before. The charisma was completely gone. His softer personality that had developed over the past few days had vanished, leaving… _this_ in its wake.

               “What’s the matter, Sherly?” Jim crooned, “You don’t think I’d hurt my little angel, do you?”

               Sherlock backed up a few paces, trying to increase the distance between him and the monster. This was stupid. He had been so, so stupid. How had he actually _believed_ that Jim cared for him? It was madness. He had, looking back, _gotten_ a confession from Jim on several occasions, but been too _lovestruck_ to use it! God, he had been such a fool. And now he was going to die. Because he had actually believed that he could _trust_ the monster that was Jim Moriarty. And to think, he’d actually fallen for the idea that Jim would let him into his web. And now, he was trapped; tangled in the spider’s threads, paralyzed.

               Sherlock was rooted to the spot where he stood as Jim closed the distance between them. He couldn’t seem to make himself move, even though every nerve in his body was screaming to fight. Some _ridiculous_ part of his mind was still convinced that Jim wouldn’t do anything to him, and was telling him to wait; though Sherlock knew that this was highly improbable, given that the glint in Jim’s eyes (which hadn’t broken contact with his own for about ten seconds) read nothing other than bloodlust.

               “Oh, that’s cute,” Jim breathed as he brushed a hand against Sherlock’s, “You’re actually shaking. I wonder if you did that on the rooftop. Hahaha, I’ll bet you did. Like a leaf on a tree.”

               “Stop,” Sherlock said as he pressed himself more into the wall. There was zero space between the two men now, and he hated the way Jim’s warmth against his made his heart race. Though, he could pass that off as adrenaline.

               “You know, I’ve always wondered,” Jim’s eyes glimmered sadistically, “how you would look all torn up. It wasn’t real the day of the fall, but I long to see some scars on you, Sherlock Holmes.”

               Sherlock moved to show him the scars on his arm, hoping that a memory of what he’d thought was an emotional conversation would stop Jim from whatever he was about to do, but Jim grabbed his wrist, pinning it to the wall and eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Sherlock.

               Jim licked his lips. Crimson dripping down Sherlock’s pale skin. That was all he wanted to see. Thick, sticky red pouring out of the detective. Shattered teeth. Splintered bones. Muscles tearing like ribbons of satin. He had waited too long for this. There was a monster roaring in his chest, clawing it’s way to the surface again. His conscience was drowning, trying to remind him that he liked Sherlock, that he wasn’t ordinary, but the monster forced its head under the water again and again until it was silent. Of course Sherlock wasn’t ordinary. That only meant it would be even better seeing his guts spilled out over the floor. Would he be the same as everyone else was, or was there some secret hidden beneath the detective’s skin? Jim got off just thinking of it. Finally, Sherlock would fall. Jim was so filled with rage and bloodlust that he was seeing red.

               “It’s what got me through your torture, you know,” Jim said softly, “Thinking of our positions reversed. I have some pretty twisted fantasies about you, honey.” If his words hadn’t been so terrifying, Sherlock would have thought Jim was comforting a child or a loved one, from the tone of his voice. Jim stared up at him, absentmindedly stroking the dagger. His grip was loose, then. Only one chance…

               Sherlock made a grab for the knife, and Jim jerked it back, just enough so that when Sherock’s fingers closed, it was around the blade. As soon as the detective realized what he had done, Jim brought the weapon back further, slicing Sherlock’s hand and bringing a shower of crimson rain onto the carpet. Sherlock cradled his injured hand with a gasp, and just as he looked up to assess the situation, he saw a glint of silver out of the corner of his eye, and felt a searing pain in his upper left arm. Crying out, he finally managed to unfreeze and shove Jim backwards away from him, sending the criminal stumbling back into a table.

               Jim was back on his feet in a second. He had gotten stronger after his few days of recovery, and Sherlock’s tending of his injuries and regular meals had gotten him some energy back. His eyes black with madness, he tightened his grip on the knife, and turned to finish what he had started with the detective.

               However, when Jim’s eyes fell on Sherlock, his gut twisted. There was a spreading dark stain on his upper arm where the criminal had stabbed him, and blood was running down his other hand that had held the knife’s blade as he tried to stop the bleeding of both wounds.

               The monster in Jim’s chest was silent. His conscience was silent, as well, though he was sure for different reasons. Sherlock looked so wrong. He felt sick looking at the detective. His face was horrifyingly pale, and in his eyes was a look that made Jim want to take the knife to himself.

               The blade fell through his fingers. His hands were trembling. Jim couldn’t breathe. There was a lump in his throat that he couldn’t seem to move past. Some sort of weight in his chest anchored him to where he stood. He wasn’t even angry that he was immobilized in such a typical way, only upset. Had he really done _that_ to Sherlock? _He_ was the reason for the look of hatred in Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock _hated him_. Jim felt so _wrong_. The blood staining the detective’s clothes was revolting. It was horrifying. How Jim had ever thought such a terrible thing could be good was beyond him. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to bleed. It was so wrong on him. So wrong…

               Jim rushed over to the detective, and Sherlock attempted to crawl away from him, to no avail. The pain was too much for him to move. Sherlock was seeing spots and nearly lost consciousness once. He had to stay awake. He had to get away from Jim. The detective’s breathing came in quick, rushed gasps, and Jim, without realizing it, was holding his own breath.

               Jim put his hand to Sherlock’s wound, and looked on in horror at the red his fingers came away coated with. Even more horrifying was Sherlock’s gaze. Jim felt nauseous as he studied the emotions in Sherlock’s eyes. Anger, fear, betrayal. The way he had positioned himself to be as far from Jim as possible, as though he was a mouse backed into a corner, about to be eaten by a housecat.

               “Sherlock-” Jim struggled to speak past the lump in his throat, “I—I’m--” He blinked back tears.

               “What?” Sherlock seethed with rage, “You’re going to apologize now?” His cruel tone cut through Jim as though the detective had taken the knife to his chest.

               “I—I don’t know--” Jim struggled to find words. It was useless, really. What could he say? That he didn’t know why he had done it? Even he knew that sounded like bullshit.

               “You know exactly why you did it,” Sherlock spat. The red stain on his sleeve continued to grow.

               “No, Sherlock,” Jim shook his head, his voice barely audible. It cracked with emotion, “Oh, God…” He had taken Sherlock’s hand, and was examining the deep cut across the detective’s palm, pouring out scarlet. He blinked back tears. Never again. He could never again let anything hurt Sherlock.

               Sherlock was shocked to see this display of emotion from the criminal. He probably would have kissed Jim if he hadn’t just realized the true measure of Jim’s madness.

               “Sherlock, I--” Jim tried again, and his voice croaked, “I don’t know-”

               “That’s what they all say,” Sherlock said coldly. Out of all the abuse cases he had dealt with, they were all the same, “And every time, it’s clear that one of the pair needs help.”

               Jim frantically shook his head, “No! Sherlock-”

               “You need _help_ , Jim!” Sherlock shouted, then took a shaky breath, “There is something _wrong_ with you, do you hear me?”

               Jim’s heart stopped, “No, please Sherlock, I-”

               “You need _help_. It’s not other people, it’s you. _You_ are the problem, do you hear me?” Sherlock was trying not to cry now, too. He knew the words would hurt Jim. He knew because they were the exact ones he had always been terrified to hear himself.

               “No,” Jim swallowed the lump in his throat, “I need _you_ , Sherlock. You’re my angel, remember?” Tears were streaming down Jim’s face at this point. He didn’t care about the mask. He didn’t care about anything. All he cared about was Sherlock.

               “I want you out,” Sherlock hissed, “Leave.” He hated Jim. So very much. Let him go back to his web; he didn’t even want a confession anymore.

               “No,” Jim whispered through tears.

               “ _Out.”_

Jim nodded, getting up, “What then?” he spread his arms wide, adding emphasis, “Will Sherlock Holmes spend the rest of his life hiding?”

               “It would be better than spending it hiding with you,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

               “I DON’T KNOW WHY I DID IT!” Jim was screaming now, still crying.

               “YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHY YOU DID IT! YOU WANT ME DEAD!” Sherlock was losing control now. He didn’t think he’d ever been this angry.

               “IT WAS TWISTED!” Jim admitted, “I… It was twisted.” His voice fell in volume finally. He stared at the floor, defeated.

               “I didn’t want you dead, Sherlock, I-” Jim struggled to explain quickly, afraid the detective would cut him off, “I just, I wanted to see how blood looked on you. I wanted to see it on your skin. Your skin is really pale, perfect for that…”

               Sherlock narrowed his eyes, still angry.

               “I don’t… there was something wrong, Sherlock. I knew there was something wrong when I saw it actually _on_ you. You know how you plan something, and it doesn’t go as you wanted? That never happens to me. And it did here and I just...” he took a breath, “I am so, so sorry Sherlock. You cannot imagine how I feel now.”

               “How _you_ feel?” Sherlock hissed, “What about how _I_ feel? You tried to kill me, Jim! If you had liked the way ‘blood looked on my pale skin’ you would have slit my throat!”

               “But I never would have! I couldn’t do it to you, Sherlock. Not ever. Nothing like this will ever happen again.”

               “And I’m just supposed to trust you on your _word_?” Sherlock was incredulous.

               “…Yes,” Jim looked hopelessly to the detective.

               Sherlock was silent. It was ridiculous for Jim to expect his trust. He had just tried to _kill_ him, for god’s sake. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to go back to how he and Jim had been before this had happened. But what would have happened then? Sherlock had been completely ready to go with Jim and assist in a murder. What was happening to him? He had to know that was wrong. Did Sherlock really want to be with a man who completely changed who he was and his value for his morals? He wasn’t sure. Jim was different from everyone else. Sherlock had never cared about anyone else in this way in his entire life. But he wasn’t sure it was worth losing himself along the way. And then there was the issue of keeping up the charade. How long could they go before John would see that something was up? The doctor wasn’t stupid. Perhaps this was for the best. Certainly this wasn’t going to be an indefinite affair.

               Sherlock tried to get up, only to sink back onto the floor. Jim rushed over to the detective, and hesitantly hooked his arms under the detectives’, dragging him to the couch. Sherlock groaned.

               “My phone,” Jim held out his hand. He needed to call Sebastian and tell him to take care of business himself.

               Sherlock slowly shook his head, looking Jim dead in the eyes as he did so.

               “What’s your passcode?”

               “...3255”

               “Fall. And I’m meant to trust you.” It didn’t take much to tell, from the letter combinations on each number, what the code spelled out.

               Jim shook his head, not even trying to make excuses. It was an old code, but he honestly didn’t feel like talking.

               Sherlock found Sebastian’s name in Jim’s contacts and pressed the call button.

               _“Hello?”_

Sherlock held the phone out for Jim to talk into.

               “Sebastian, change of plans. I need you to take care of business yourself on this job.”

               _“Sure thing, boss.”_

“See that it is,” Jim ended the call there, and Sherlock pocketed the phone again.

               Jim gingerly moved Sherlock’s hand from his injured arm, and further tore the already ripped fabric around the wound to get a better look.

               It was a deep wound. Clean, but deep. He thought of Sherlock’s muscles torn, dents in his bones. It made him sick.

               Jim didn’t speak as he dressed Sherlock’s wounds. The detective followed his lead, wondering how Jim managed to find the first aid kit so quickly, but never asking.

               Jim did his best to copy Sherlock’s method of dressing his own wounds, though Sherlock was facing a different problem than he had been. Blood soaked through the bandages very quickly, and while Jim wasn’t clueless on how to tend injuries, he still worried about the damage he had done to Sherlock.

               Finally, he was finished. His own hands were covered in blood now, and while both were trying to hide it, detective and criminal felt excruciatingly tired.

               Jim nuzzled his head into Sherlock’s neck, hiding his face from the world, and wrapped his arms around the detective as best as he could, kneeling by his side. He needed to keep his angel safe. Sherlock stiffened, but said nothing. He wasn’t sure there was anything _to_ be said.

               Jim was disgusted with himself. He couldn’t remember hating himself this much since helping his father hide Mary’s body. He just wanted to stay here by Sherlock’s side. The detective would keep him safe. He never wanted to address what happened today. Never. He would never fail Sherlock again. It was something that could not happen.

               Finally, Jim felt Sherlock’s breathing begin to deepen and steady. Carefully, he got up from the sleeping detective’s side and walked over to where the bloody knife still lay. Taking the cursed thing to the kitchen, he went to the sink and washed every trace of crimson off of the blade. He tried to make himself forget it was Sherlock’s blood. He kept thinking of Mary, which only made matters worse.

               Once it was clean and dry, Jim walked over to the mantel and slowly, but with as much force as he could muster, pressed the silver blade into the pile of miscellaneous papers Sherlock kept there, until it was deeply embedded into the wood.

               He never wanted to see that thing again.


	14. Undisclosed Desires

_“I want to reconcile the violence in your heart_

_I want to recognize your beauty is not just a mask,_

_I want to exorcise the demons from your past,_

_I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart.”_

_-Muse_

 

               John sighed as he opened the door to the flat. What a day it had been. On top of the stress from work, he had to come home to a psychopath captive in their flat. He’d known that Jim would be tough to break, but when was Sherlock going to get a confession? Surely they at least could get that much. It had been far too long for them to have made this little progress. Though perhaps today would be the day. Perhaps he would be pleasantly surprised.

               As soon as John’s eyes found Sherlock, however, his heart sank with disappointment. The prick was lying on the couch with… of course, John’s laptop. The doctor cleared his throat loudly to get Sherlock’s attention.

               Sherlock didn’t even turn his head in John’s direction, “Are you catching a cold?” he asked sarcastically.

               John’s temper flared, “Actually, I might be. Given that I went _outside_ to _work_ today.”

               “Being exposed to low temperatures hardly has anything to do with catching cold. It’s a virus and-”

               “Sherlock, have you done _anything_ today?” John interrupted.

               “Actually, yes, I have gotten quite a lot accomplished,” Sherlock’s voice remained even.     

               “Oh? Like what?”

               “When one of Jim’s goons tried to attack me I was able to stay alive, so I’d say that was a win,” Sherlock was rather proud of the lie.

               John was suddenly concerned, “You’re kidding. What happened?” He changed his position so he could look Sherlock in the eye.

               Jim spoke up then, “He tried to _rescue_ me. Isn’t that cute? I was rather flattered, actually…”

               John rushed over to Jim, furious, “ _What did you do_?”

               Jim rolled his eyes, grinning, “Nothing, _silly_. _He_ did it all by himself. Again, it’s cute when you don’t even have to program them.”

               “What. Did. He. Do. To. Sherlock?” John asked through gritted teeth in a dangerously quiet voice.

               Jim shrugged, “Not much. Though I suppose you could say he took a _chip off the old block_. Ahaha…”

               “You disgust me,” John spat. He turned away before he could see Jim’s slight flinch, “How bad is it?” He rushed over to Sherlock.

               “Not bad,” Sherlock said quietly, showing John his bandaged right hand and left arm. He had never wanted for John to get this upset over it.

               “Can I see?” John asked gently, not really waiting for an answer and taking Sherlock’s arm in his hands.

               “You wrapped these like an idiot,” he shook his head, “Sherlock this could have been very bad.”

               “Its fine, John. It won’t happen again,” Sherlock was reassuring himself of the same thing.

               “No, it’s not, Sherlock,” John pushed, undoing the bandages, “Maybe I should take some time off of work-”

               “No!” Sherlock responded a little too quickly, earning him a strange look from John.

               “No…” he continued, “John, we need someone to pay the rent.”

               John smirked, “And I guess that’s me, then,” he chuckled, but quickly stopped once all of the bandages were off. He whistled, “That looks bad, Sherlock. Were you stabbed?”

               “Of course I was stabbed. What does it look like?” The detective snapped.

               “Alright! Well, Sherlock I think we need to go to the hospital. I worry that it hit the bone.”

               “I’m sure it didn’t. Just wrap it the proper way so we can get on with our lives.”

               John paused, then decided it would be pointless to argue. They really couldn’t afford hospital bills right now, anyway. “Tell me where it hurts,” he said. The doctor applied pressure on all different parts of Sherlock’s arm, more often than not earning a hiss of pain or a sharp intake of breath. He didn’t see Jim glaring at them from across the room, eyes flashing with jealousy.

               After wrapping up Sherlock’s arm and hand (the proper way), the rest of the evening was relatively quiet. Sherlock went to bed early, but insisted he and John honor their proper watches, partially because he wanted to speak to Jim and partially because he didn’t want John to have to stay up all night.

               John’s comment was worrying Sherlock, though. The doctor was a constant reminder that he and Jim couldn’t keep up their charade forever, and that most likely it wasn’t going to end well for either of them. Jim could end up in prison, or Sherlock would end up trapped in hiding for the rest of his life. The detective hated thinking about it, but the clock was ticking, and for every day that went by, there was less and less time left for he and Jim to spend together. He wasn’t even sure if that was a _bad_ thing. Jim was certainly unstable, and he would not make a very good partner in a relationship. Though something in Sherlock somehow managed to still doubt that. Because as much as Jim had really cracked today, Sherlock felt that while something had broken inside of him, something also had been healed.

************************************************************************************

               “What are you thinking about?” Jim murmured as Sherlock undid his cuffs, later that night. John had gone upstairs about half an hour ago, and Sherlock had wanted to be safer than usual with staying hidden tonight.

               “What’s going to happen once John figures out that I’m no longer torturing you,” Sherlock said quietly.

               “…What do you _want_ to happen?” Jim asked, getting up.

               “I don’t know. There’s really not many options of what _could_ happen,” Sherlock frowned.

               Jim nodded, acknowledging the detective’s fear. This was a simple problem. He would not let it take his angel away.

               “You could come work with me…” the criminal discarded the idea as soon as it was out. Sherlock would never leave John. And he would never participate in such a cruel line of work, either. Jim realized that now, and accepted it; though that didn’t stop him from constructing scenarios in his mind of the different (far-fetched) ways they could remain together.

               Sherlock shook his head, “I don’t think that’s possible…”

               “No- I… I know,” Jim said quickly.

               The detective let out a frustrated huff, “There must be an answer. A simple answer that we’re just not seeing!”

               “Seems I’ve been trapped in my own web,” Jim said dreamily, looking at the kitchen, where Sherlock’s experiments were scattered everywhere, as usual. “What are you working on here?” he asked, walking over to study the glass beakers.

               “Several things,” Sherlock jumped at the chance to explain, “Here I’m studying whether being soaked in blood affects the rate of decomposition. Here I’m trying to find out if it’s possible to make a perfume into a deadly poison without it being detectable, and here I’m-”

               “Deadly perfume,” Jim grinned as he interrupted the detective, “I _like_ it. You can be quite _deliciously_ evil when you want to, Sherly.”

               “It’s not for _me_ to use, obviously. I’m just curious whether or not it would work.”

               “Mm. Have you had any success?” Jim studied the solution.

               “No. I can’t seem to fix the odor.”

               “Let me see…” Jim grabbed a few bottles and, about ten minutes of boiling, mixing, and pouring later, he had a normal looking solution that smelled like parsley created.

               “Parsley perfume. Very convincing,” Sherlock said sarcastically.

               “ _Obviously_ it would work with other scents; roses and the like. All you happened to have in your kitchen was parsley.”

               “Ah, I see.” Sherlock nodded, judging Jim’s work as though he was the professor and the criminal his student.

               “Don’t act so superior,” Jim scowled, “You know you’re impressed.”

               Sherlock smirked, “I’m merely impressed that you thought of something I hadn’t.”

               “Don’t play hard to get, now,” Jim said coyly, “Fine. If you think you’re such a chemistry master, why don’t you go ahead and impress _me_.”

               Jim may as well have challenged Sherlock to a fight to the death. The next hour was a blur of glasses clinking, solutions bubbling, and pride surging. Before they had known it, the two geniuses had filled an entire countertop with various acids, poisons, and miscellaneous chemicals. The two examined their work.

               “I think my tranquilizing solution was the most impressive, since that usually takes an hour, and I did it in 45 minutes.”

               “Yes, but all the rest of yours were extremely easy,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Mine were all difficult and exerting, despite the fact that they were less time consuming.”

               “You get to practice every day, though. I don’t.” Jim countered.

               “Hardly my concern,” Sherlock said offhandedly.

               “It is, though, because I could still keep up,” Jim bantered.

               “You can tell yourself what you want,” Sherlock teased, “ _I_ won.” He mock turned his back on Jim and started walking away.

               Jim snuck up behind the detective and managed to throw his arms around the taller man’s neck.

               “You win this time, Sherly, but you can’t win at everything,” Jim whispered softly in the detective’s ear. Sherlock’s heart started racing. Jim’s warmth against his back was sending an electric current up and down his spine. He tried to stop his thoughts from going in the direction he knew they were headed, but soon couldn’t help himself. He spun around on his heel and crashed his lips to Jim’s, earning a surprised gasp from the criminal before he closed his eyes and let Sherlock lead him to the couch.

               Sherlock’s weight on top of Jim felt just as he had dreamt it would. The detective weighed slightly more than him, so there was a firmness about it, but not so much that it was uncomfortable. He could feel every detail of Sherlock’s back and chest through his shirt, and he moaned as he felt the detective’s muscles flex and move as he got into a more comfortable position.

               Sherlock ran his tongue across Jim’s lips, requesting entrance to his mouth, and Jim happily complied. For the first time, the two explored each other’s mouths, tongues dancing in an intricate way that only two halves of a whole could achieve. Jim tasted like heaven and hell mixed all into one. It was his own personal slice of heaven, and yet Sherlock could never have enough to satisfy. There was only so much of a person’s mouth that could be explored before things got repetitive. Sherlock felt teased—there was so much of Jim he _hadn’t_ felt yet—why would he spend all night on his mouth?

               To Jim’s frustration, Sherlock broke the kiss, and instead moved on to kissing the side of Jim’s neck that hadn’t been burnt in their torture sessions so long ago. Jim moved a hand through Sherlock’s hair, holding back a moan as the detective’s tongue flicked and did its work on his skin as his teeth gently nipped, taunting him.

               Sherlock could feel Jim’s hardness against him, and felt not disgusted, as he had thought he would. Rather, he found it extremely arousing. He felt a rush of blood go towards his own cock as he thought of Jim succumbing to desire for him.

               It was becoming confusing trying to tell whose body was whose for Jim. As far as he knew, Sherlock always needed to be on top of him. It seemed a terrible idea to ever be away from Sherlock’s radiating body heat, to never feel the detective’s quickened heartbeat against his own. God, he loved Sherlock. He never had realized it. Not until this point. He _loved_ Sherlock. That was what this was. He _needed_ Sherlock; needed him like the sky needed a sun.

               “Sherlock…” Jim breathed. Sherlock heard, but didn’t say anything. His hands kept roving, attempting to memorize every curve of Jim’s body, every pattern of skin he could find.

               “Fuck me, Sherlock,” Jim moaned.

               Sherlock jolted his head away from Jim’s neck, looking him straight in the eyes with a confused look. He wasn’t sure he _could_ … He wanted to make Jim happy, but suddenly he wasn’t sure he would be able to do this. What if he was disgusted by it? What if…

               “Oh for God’s sake,” Jim rolled his eyes, reading Sherlock’s expression perfectly. He would have to show Sherlock how, then. The criminal shoved Sherlock off of him, and the two switched places, Jim now on top with Sherlock’s sharp eyes gazing up at him.

               The criminal planted a chaste kiss on the detective’s lips, and Sherlock sighed as Jim moved back. His deft hands moved to Sherlock’s pajama pants, grabbing the waistline of both them and his underwear and gently sliding both off of the detective’s slightly too prominent hipbones at once, freeing the detective’s erection and leaving his bottom half completely exposed.

               “You’re far too thin,” Jim commented breathily. Sherlock was impressed with Jim’s amount of self-control, as he was able to look him dead in the eyes when he said this.

               Sherlock’s body shook with chuckles, “That’s what you have to say?” he grinned to himself. He wasn’t sure why it was so extremely funny to him, only that he had to work to contain himself.

               Jim gazed down at the detective with a lustful smirk, wanting to put an end to the laughing. He glanced towards where John’s bedroom was.

               “We need to be quiet,” he said, completely serious. Sherlock nodded.

               “And,” Jim added, “In case you aren’t familiar, my little virgin angel, the trick to this game is holding off temptation for as long as you can.”

               Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Of course I am familiar with how-” his words were cut off with a gasp as he felt himself surrounded by a hot wetness that hadn’t been there a moment before. Jim had deep throated him in one go.

               The detective leaned his head back, eyes closed. Everything was hot, and all he could see was Jim. The criminal’s tongue and mouth teased and brought more blood rushing to his already impossibly hard cock. His mind was in a haze, and several times Jim would surprise him with a pinch of his hands somewhere or an unexpected flick of the tongue and Sherlock would have to fight with all of his willpower not to come then and there. The detective thrashed his head from side to side as Jim gave him a particularly hard suck, sending him ridiculously close to tumbling off the edge.

               Suddenly, Sherlock felt a graze of teeth against himself and felt a wave of adrenaline rush over him.

               “Do that again,” he ordered, and Jim complied.

               “ _Yes…_ ” the detective breathed.

               Jim noted this as he sped up his pace. Sucking harder than he had before and adding a graze of teeth whenever he could. He should have known Sherlock would like it rough.

               “James, I’m going to… I…” Sherlock pleaded in desperation. He thought he knew what was coming, and it was terrifying, yet exciting at the same time how little control he had over it.

               Jim freed his mouth for a moment and quickly whispered in Sherlock’s ear, “Whenever you’re ready, darling,” before returning to work.

               It didn’t take long. Sherlock couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He felt himself tumble over the edge as he released into Jim’s mouth, calling out his name as quietly as he possibly could and then sinking down onto the couch as he rode out his orgasm.

************************************************************************************

               Jim finished swallowing and pulled off of the detective, breathing heavily as he looked down at the other man with dark eyes. Sherlock looked quite peaceful. His breathing had slowed slightly and he lay back completely content, eyes closed, still enjoying his post orgasm bliss.

               “I suppose it’s my turn then?” Sherlock said in between breaths, still not opening his eyes.

               Jim leaned down and kissed Sherlock, “…if you want,” he murmured seductively against the detective’s lips. Sherlock could taste himself on them.

               Without warning, Sherlock slipped out from underneath Jim and effectively switched their positions, using both arms to pin the criminal to the couch.

               “Sherly,” Jim grinned mischievously, “I never would have taken you for the dominating type.”

               Sherlock allowed himself an arrogant smirk; he felt it fitted the situation.

               “Allow me to demonstrate,” the words rolled off his tongue as if he had years of experience, though one time with Jim seemed to give the detective all of the confidence that he needed. Sherlock stared into Jim’s eyes with a predatory, hungry gaze.

               Jim hoped he didn’t take too long to get started.

               Sherlock crashed his lips to Jim’s, still holding the criminal’s arms down so that all he could do was moan into the detective’s mouth. He nipped at Jim’s bottom lip, enjoying the startled gasp from the latter. He could feel Jim smiling through their twisted kiss.

               Sherlock next moved on to Jim’s neck, gently kissing the places he had burned the criminal, but showing no mercy to every other inch of skin he could find. He bit and sucked as hard as he dared, worrying about leaving marks that were too obvious.

               Jim accidentally moaned louder than usual. The two froze for a moment, listening for any sign that John had woken up. Jim looked Sherlock dead in the eyes and said with complete conviction,

               “Gag me.”

               Sherlock didn’t need to be told twice. He reluctantly got off of Jim and raced to the kitchen to get a clean rag. The detective had Jim gagged within ten seconds, anxious to get back to what they had started. Jim found himself getting impossibly harder now that he was bound, and this didn’t escape Sherlock’s notice.

               With ever so slight hesitation, he removed Jim’s trousers and underwear. The detective wrapped his lips around only the tip of Jim’s erection, further teasing the criminal.

               Jim thrashed his head from side to side, barely able to resist the urge to buck his hips and completely submerge himself in Sherlock’s hot mouth as he sucked half of his cock, and then moved back to only the tip. Jim moaned in frustration. He would beg if that was what Sherlock wanted. He was tempted to tangle a hand in the detective’s brunette curls and shove down, forcing him to take Jim in his entirety.

               This, however, proved to not be needed. Sherlock, seeming to be satisfied with Jim’s level of distress, finally sank his head all the way down to the base of the criminals cock, fighting the urge to gag for the first few moments. He fell into a rhythm, sucking Jim at a moderate pace to begin with, but soon increasing in tempo and forcefulness.

               Jim felt himself being pulled closer and closer to the edge as Sherlock sped up. He felt around and finally found the detective’s hand, squeezing it with a moan to indicate that he wouldn’t last much longer. Sherlock returned the gesture, telling Jim to come whenever he was ready.

               Finally, Jim couldn’t hold himself back any more and he came hard in Sherlock’s mouth, arching his back as he did so. The detective swallowed his seed, not liking the taste, as he expected, but _loving_ the arousal the gesture brought him. There was something about it so deliciously _erotic_ about it…

               Jim sank back onto the couch with a sigh, breathing hard as he removed his gag, tossing it onto the floor. When he closed his eyes all he saw was Sherlock.

               The detective finished and, licking his lips, moved back up so that his face was even with Jim’s. He nuzzled his face into Jim’s neck, closing his eyes.

               “Burns,” the criminal whispered as he winced with pain, reminding Sherlock of his injuries, “I think we should switch places.”

               Sherlock complied, and had to admit that Jim’s way was comfier. The smaller man weighed less than him, and so not only was more content on top, but also could fit better in between Sherlock and the side of the couch. The two lay there silently for a few moments.   

               “What do we do now?” Jim mumbled into Sherlock’s chest, matching his breathing with the detective’s.

               “Sleep, I suppose,” Sherlock answered, staring at the ceiling. He was exhausted, he had to admit, but the idea of being unconscious, away from Jim, was not an appealing one.

               “Boring,” Jim mumbled, “Let’s talk instead.”

               “Okay,” Sherlock said softly, “What about?”

               “Can you always call me that?” Jim asked quietly.

               “What?” Sherlock’s brow furrowed in confusion.

               “James. You called me James when you ca…”

               “Oh!” Sherlock said a little too loudly, “I—oh… alright.” He said the second part extremely quietly.

               James grinned, “Don’t be so bashful, Sherly. You know all successful relationships can talk openly about these things.”

               Sherlock sighed, “You know, if I’m going to call you James, you need to let up on this ‘Sherly’ nonsense.”

               “No,” James said stubbornly. Sherlock only sighed in response.

               “It was… good, then?” the detective finally said, “For you, too?” He cringed at his own words.

               James rolled his eyes, “Don’t ruin it, Sherlock,” he said in a convincing irritated tone, “Though I will say, I underestimated you a bit. You’re a bit intimidating, you know.”

               Sherlock smirked.

               The criminal rolled his eyes again, “Don’t get too cocky now-” He realized what he had said too late.

               Laughter shook Sherlock’s lean form as he struggled to stay quiet. It was ridiculous, he knew, but it was, at the moment, quite hilarious to hear James say something so obviously dirty on accident.

               “You’re a child,” James shook his head, though he allowed himself a small smile at the detective’s happiness, unseen by Sherlock.

               “I’ve only loved one person before, Sherlock,” he was suddenly dead serious.

               Sherlock stroked the criminal’s hair in response.

               “My little sister--Sherlock, I… I killed her. It was my fault. The only person I ever loved…”

               “You didn’t kill her, James,” Sherlock reassured, testing the name out on his tongue, “You were a child. You didn’t know what to do. Your father killed her. What you did was completely normal.”

               “I’m one of them,” James said quietly, “I’m ordinary, aren’t I?”

               “You’ve never been ordinary, James,” Sherlock answered.

               There was a moment of silence before James answered.

               “I almost killed you, Sherlock,” he said almost inaudibly, “I was so close, on the rooftop. I had the gun right there. All I had to do was pull the trigger. Or I could have pushed you. Or… stabbed you.” He thought back to the painful ordeal with the knife earlier that day.

               “I could have blown up the bomb jacket that night at the swimming pool,” Sherlock was horrified at the idea, “I could have killed us both.”

               “It would be better than being alone,” James said, “I would have been so alone, Sherlock.”

               “Well,” Sherlock said, reflecting, “now you don’t have to be.” He said it almost as if he was scolding a child.

               Neither said anything for a while. Both entered their separate mind palaces, in parallel worlds. Finally, Sherlock cracked an eye open.

               “Tell me about your sister,” he requested. What could he say? He didn’t really have a good reason; he just wanted to know.

               James sighed. He waited for a good amount of time before responding.

               “She… she was…light.”

               “Light…” the detective breathed.

               “Light.”

               “…Oh,” Sherlock said softly.

               James huffed, “What are we going to do, Sherlock?” he mumbled drowsily.

               “Lay here until morning, I expect,” the detective said matter of factly.

               “No, _doofus_ , I mean about _this_.”

               “…Oh,” Sherlock whispered. James waited for his response. He never got one.

               “I… love you,” James said deeply, testing the words out. It felt odd saying them, but he couldn’t say they had either a positive or a negative feeling to them. He noticed Sherlock’s breathing hitch, and realized what response he was supposed to wait for.

               Sherlock didn’t know what to say. His previously clear mind was suddenly swarmed with voices.

               _I love you._

_Just say it, Sherlock._

_But what if…?_

_What if NOTHING. You love him._

_TELL HIM._

_This is your chance._

“I… the feeling is mutual, James,” Sherlock finally blurted out.

               James smiled softly, planting a quiet kiss on the detective’s lips before snuggling into his side again. They didn’t move for hours.


	15. Panic Station

_“Doubts will try to break you_

_Unleash your heart and soul_

_Trouble will surround you_

_Start taking some control.”_

_-Muse_

 

               Sherlock didn’t feel as horrible as he’d thought he would when he and James were finally forced apart by the rising sun. They would, after all, be able to be close again once John had left for work. The detective had been awake all night, thinking, as James slept huddled into his side. He had to admit, he was rather more fond of this closeness than he had initially thought he would be. James didn’t look anything _like_ the dangerous criminal he was when conscious when he was asleep; he almost looked childlike.

               He brushed James’s slightly overgrown hair out of his face, trying to think of how he was going to tell John… and when. This was such a mammoth problem; he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to attack it. Perhaps that would be his and James’s activity for the day.

               He shook the criminal, trying to wake him, only to get a sort of sigh and a slight shift in position as a response.

               Sherlock rolled his eyes, “James,” he said forcefully. The criminal’s forehead creased and he frowned, showing that he was coming to.

               “What?” he asked drowsily, upset that he had been woken up.

               “Sun’s coming up, we should get up.”

               James grimaced, throwing an arm over his head. The gesture was extremely awkward, as Sherlock was still on the couch and the two of them only fit in certain positions.

               The change in position was all the motivation Sherlock needed to get up; he wasn’t comfortable anymore since James had moved. He rolled off the couch, shoving the criminal off of him.

               James finally opened his dark eyes, squinting at the light coming in through the windows.

               “Damn, we slept in,” he commented groggily.

               “Yes, which is why you need to get up,” Sherlock said impatiently.

               James forced himself to get up, becoming rapidly more awake by the second, assessing the situation.

               “How long until John gets up?” the criminal inquired.

               “About fifteen minutes,” Sherlock said.

               “ _Fifteen?_ ” James was appalled. They had cut it far too close this time.

               “Yes,” Sherlock snapped as he fetched the handcuffs stealthily and locked them around James’s wrists and ankles. The two finished with only about six minutes to spare, and James felt a strange urge to laugh at how much the doctor didn’t know about them. He and Sherlock quickly reigned in their grins, however, when they heard footsteps.

               “Morning,” John grunted.

               “Happy Friday,” Sherlock said sarcastically.

               “Yeah, if you say so,” John replied, trudging into the kitchen. Sherlock focused on the chemical equation he was balancing.

               “Tea?” John asked from the kitchen.

               “Yes.”

               John stole a glance at Moriarty. He looked… better. The doctor couldn’t put his finger on it. He knew he and Sherlock had agreed no more physical torture, but he hadn’t expected him to obey this thoroughly. Jim not only looked as if he was eating better, but his hair and skin both had a more healthy shine, and his eyes seemed all of a sudden to have lost the blank look they had begun to develop throughout torture, and regained the sparkle of madness that usually resided there.            

               It was disturbing. The fact that Jim was _happy_ about something was very off putting. John had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wondered why the criminal was so happy. He worried about Sherlock. Maybe Jim had developed a plan. Maybe he had found a way to get to the detective.

               But then when John looked at Sherlock, his confusion only grew. The detective really just looked like his normal self. If anything, he looked _better_ than normal. It was difficult to see, but if John really looked, he could see something in Sherlock’s eyes that wasn’t there before. There was something different about the way he did things. If John didn’t know better, he would have said he was less… wired? Was that the word? Probably not, but the doctor really didn’t have any idea what exactly to call it. Sherlock and Moriarty definitely looked different than normal, which only left one question left to the doctor:

               Why?

*************************************************************************************

               “So, what’s the agenda for today, may I ask?” James asked as Sherlock undid the handcuffs around his ankles.

               Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to meet the criminal’s, and his response caught in his throat, thinking of the previous night.

               “Oh, honey,” James teased, “You can say something, you know. No need to feel awkward.” He was shamelessly grinning.

               Sherlock gave a small smirk as he put the key back in his pocket, and both men stood up.

               “No need to treat me like a child,” the detective said slightly coldly.

               “Sorry darling, it’s my nature to poke at the specimen,” James said absentmindedly.

               “As is mine. Though I don’t do things just for the sake of doing them.”

               James didn’t feel like debating this—he already knew how it would end. He didn’t answer and let silence fall for a moment.

               “You never answered my first question,” James prompted.

               “Small talk. Obviously, we need to figure out what we’re going to do about _this_ ,” Sherlock said matter of factly.

               “Ah, yes. Obviously,” James wasn’t in the mood for talking of John, “But how about first, we discuss last night, hm?”

               Sherlock balked, “Why would… why?”

               “Oh, Sherly, you know why. It’s so _obvious_ , really,” James’s eyes glinted.

               “Enlighten me. It’s done. It’s over. What could possibly be the purpose of-”

               “Did you like it?” James interrupted, and the detective froze midsentence.

               “…What?” he asked, caught off guard.

               “You heard me,” James stared.

               “Yes.”

               “That’s all you’re going to give me? Yes?” James asked incredulously.

               “What do you want?” Sherlock crossed his arms.

               “What I _want_ , Sherly… now that’s a dangerous question,” James’s eyes sparkled as he trailed off, looking out the window.

               “What I _want_ ,” he finally continued, “Is for us to do it again. Only this time, let me know if you have any… preferences.” The last word sent shivers down Sherlock’s spine. He took a few steps closer to James so that they were less than an inch apart.

               “Preferences…” he whispered, icy eyes piercing dark brown, “I have a few.”

               “Like what?” James ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s arms, feeling the toned muscle there.

               “I _prefer_ to be on top,” Sherlock said, heart pulsing.

               James grinned, “I like the way you think, darling,” he started walking away from Sherlock, towards the couch, “But I should warn you, it’s going to take quite a lot to get _me_ to beg-”

               He never got to completely finish his thought, as Sherlock had crashed his lips to the criminal’s preventing further conversation. The detective pinned James down on the couch, a hand holding down each of his arms as his tongue explored the criminal’s mouth. James tried to keep up, but he could tell that this time, it was going to be Sherlock making all of the decisions.

               “Sherlock…” James breathed as the detective moved from his mouth on to his neck. He only was pinned down with one arm now, as Sherlock’s curious hands found it difficult to completely stop themselves from roaming over James’s body.

               Sherlock moaned as James suddenly thrust upwards with his hips, grinding his already hard cock into the detective’s. Sherlock quickly regained control of himself, however, and freed both of his hands to force James’s hips down, pinning his lower half to the sofa. James’s eyes were ablaze with lust as Sherlock ground his hips against his immobilized ones. He leaned his head back with a deep moan.

               Sherlock then moved his hands back to their original job of pinning down James’s arms. He passionately kissed the criminal everywhere he could effectively reach while still grinding their hips together. James could do nothing but obey, and it was unbelievably arousing to him. He _loved_ Sherlock’s dominating side. He wanted to scream at the detective to just fuck him already. Perhaps he would…

*************************************************************************************

**Meanwhile…**

              

               “ _Dammit_ ,” John cursed to himself. He had known getting up that it was going to be a bad day. He still couldn’t _believe_ he had managed to forget his phone on the one day he actually needed it. Honestly. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually had to go back for something he had forgotten.

               As he trudged up to 221B, he decided he would need to start leaving reminders for himself if this persisted. He probably only had forgotten it because Sherlock had moved it. The prick was always touching his stuff.

               “Hey, Sherlock, I forgot my phone, did you-” John started to say as he opened the door, but never finished. His heart almost stopped when his eyes fell on Moriarty’s empty chair, which was, instinctively, the first place he looked. His jaw nearly dropped to the floor when he saw the actual scene in front of him.

               Sherlock was on top of Jim, pinning him to the couch, and _kissing_ him. Not just kissing him, but Moriarty was kissing _back_ , and _grinding his hips into Sherlock’s._ And Sherlock was responding. They were both _clearly_ responding to the stimulus. John felt ready to vomit.

               “…Sherlock,” Jim was attempting to get a word in between kisses.

               “Mm?” Sherlock didn’t seem to care all that much.

               “I thought- oh _God_ ,” Jim moaned as Sherlock did something, John didn’t want to think _what_ , to his lower half.

               “…heard something,” he finally finished his thought.

               “I didn’t…. hear….anything,” Sherlock spoke in between kisses.

               John cleared his throat loudly.

               Sherlock and Jim froze as though there were a wild animal in the room that responded only to movement. John didn’t think he’d ever seen such an expression of horror on either man’s face before. Or, even, such an amount of _expression_. Sherlock slowly turned his face towards John’s, his heart beating out of his chest. He refused to meet his friend’s eyes.

               “Hello, John-” he began carefully.

               John shook his head, cutting him off, “Don’t… don’t even…” he shook his head, walking out the door. He couldn’t take this.

               Sherlock and Jim remained frozen for another 10 seconds, sure that this was too good to be true. It felt like 10 years. Just as Sherlock considered going back to what he and James had started, though, John came storming in with the reaction he had initially expected.

               “WHAT THE EVERLOVING FUCK, SHERLOCK?” He roared.

               “John, I-” he began quietly, eyes on the floor. He and James still remained in the exact same position John had caught them in.

               “YOU WHAT? SHERLOCK WHAT THE _HELL_ POSSESSED YOU TO _HAVE SEX_ WITH THAT…THAT…”

               “John it was-”

               “NO! NO DON’T EVEN TRY TO JUSTIFY IT, SHERLOCK!” John put a hand to his forehead, “No. I knew something was going on. I knew it. I just didn’t… I _trusted_ you, Sherlock. I gave you the benefit of the doubt, and it clearly was the wrong choice.”

               The words sent a pang through Sherlock’s heart. He hated disappointing John. All arousal had disappeared completely from his and James’s bodies, and both finally unfroze from the initial position John had discovered them in, as Sherlock moved off of James and they both sat up.

               “John,” Sherlock started, getting off of the couch, moving towards his friend, “Please understand I-”

               “No, Sherlock,” John waved him off, “I really, really don’t want to hear it.” His voice had gotten dangerously quiet.

               “John we were going to tell you-”

               “OH!” John mock laughed, “So it’s ‘we’ now? You and him! Ha! I’ll bet he told you he’d changed his mind! That he was only doing it because of his troubled childhood or some shit…”

               Fire lit in James’s eyes, “Watch it,” he snapped, his voice dripping with malice.

               “Don’t tell me what to do,” John took a step towards Moriarty.

               Anger mixed with madness was quickly spreading over James’s expression. He got up off the couch and took a step towards John, challenge written all over his face. Sherlock only watched in horror as John threw the first punch.

               James actually was able to put up a decent fight. For whatever John had in strength, he had in cunning. He had learned quite a lot from schoolyard fights, but the main lesson was to play dirty if you wanted to win. The first chance he got, he delivered a swift kick between John’s legs, sending the former soldier to his knees.

               As James took a step forward to finish him off, however, Sherlock finally unfroze and decided to intervene. He pulled the criminal away from John, putting a firm hand on his shoulder, telling him to back off. He then moved closer to John.

               “Are you alright?”

               John looked up at Sherlock with incredulous disgust, “No! I am not bloody alright, Sherlock!”

               James put a hand to his bleeding, split lip, watching the scene carefully.

               Sherlock stood up, “What would you have me do, John?” He felt helpless; like all of the walls were closing in around him.

               The pain at this point had faded enough for John to stand up, staring Sherlock straight in the eyes.

               “Maybe not sleeping with a serial killer for a start. Not lying to me about it would have been nice, too.” Sherlock hadn’t seen John’s eyes that cold for a long time.

               “I didn’t lie.”

               “Yes, you did.”

               “I never _specifically_ said much that would-”

               John cut him off, “Yes, maybe not, Sherlock, but you’re supposed to tell me these things. That’s what you _do_. You tell your friends things. It keeps you safe.”

               Sherlock shook his head, “You wouldn’t have believed me.”

               “Maybe not, but I could have watched out for you, Sherlock. I could have kept you safe,” John said.

               “Nothing happened. There was no need,” Sherlock pointed out.

               “What about the bloke that stabbed you?” John slowly turned his head towards Moriarty, “And what were _you_ doing when that happened? Where you already _deeply in love_ with Sherlock, or did that happen after the incident _proved his value_ to you?”

               James’s eyes flicked over to meet John’s, analyzing how easy it would be to lie to him, and processing which lie would work the best. Of course, telling him who it was that actually stabbed the detective was completely out of the question.

               He slowly opened his mouth to speak, “I assure you,” he said in an ominous tone, “That the man who did it shall be severely punished.”

               “Oh, I see,” John nodded sarcastically, “And everyone at work is just fine with this whole thing, then?” He gestured from Sherlock to Moriarty.

               James raised his eyebrows, “They don’t care. As long as they get their paycheck.”

               John merely shook his head. A heavy silence fell in the room, and was only broken when after a few seconds Mrs. Hudson barged in, not bothering to knock, strangely enough.

               “Oh! Am I interrupting something?” she said in a surprised tone.

               “Get out…” James mumbled, rolling his eyes.

               “James!” Sherlock scolded loudly, causing Mrs. Hudson to jump.

               “Oh, so it’s _James_ now… fantastic…” John grumbled to himself.

               “Oh, grow up,” James winced at John’s childish reaction, shaking his head in disbelief.

               “I’ll just be going…” Mrs. Hudson said quietly as she awkwardly closed the door. An increasingly frustrated Sherlock just ran his hands through his hair.

               “Shut up. You’re not fooling anyone, you little rat, and the second that you show yourself for what you really are, you’ll wish you were chained to that chair again.”

               Carl Power’s words echoed in James’s ears, _“Little rat!”_ and James felt his gut twist at the memory. He decided then that he hated John. He would tolerate him if Sherlock liked him, but besides that, he would, for the doctor’s sake, keep his distance. Sherlock would no doubt be upset if he found his friend’s skin made into a table lamp shade.

               James didn’t say anything, only stared. It had worked in school, and it worked now. Usually it unnerved people enough to leave him alone.        

               “James, would you mind if John and I had a word alone?” Sherlock requested quietly.

               “Of course,” James said, setting off in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom.            

               “It’s-”

               “I know where it is.”

*************************************************************************************              

               “Sherlock, I have no words,” John shook his head, now sitting opposite the detective in his favorite armchair.

               “…John,” Sherlock began, but he had really no clue how to voice his feelings. How could he possibly explain to John?

               “I suppose he apologized for the fall? For almost blowing us up? For ruining your reputation and almost killing you? Sherlock, you’re a logical man! It blows me away that you could be this… this…”

               “Stupid?” Sherlock suggested.

               John shook his head, “No… no. It’s—Look, I know you’ve never dealt with this sort of attachment before, but people like Moriarty know how to take advantage of that, and-”

               “I’m not a child, John.”

               “…What?”

               “I said, I’m not a _child_ ,” Sherlock repeated, more forcefully this time, “There’s no need to treat me like a lovesick schoolgirl, in love for the first time. I can make my own decisions perfectly fine.”

               “But you _are_ , Sherlock!” John said, exasperated, “He’s evil! Why can’t you see that?”

               “James Moriarty is… complicated…” he trailed off.

               “Oh my God,” John breathed, “You really care about him, don’t you? I knew I shouldn’t have left you two alone for so long…”

               “It was… a lucky circumstance.”

               John merely stared.

               “But,” Sherlock continued, “It was nice to have someone like me.”

               “Sometimes it’s best _not_ to have someone like you, Sherlock. Extreme personalities need balancing out, and you and Jim both have _very-_ ”

               “Once again, I don’t need a babysitter. If that’s what you want in a romantic interest, then that is your choice, but I like to surround myself with things that are _stimulating_.”

               John only shook his head, not in the mood for countering the insult. He couldn’t believe this was happening.

               “Are you planning on keeping him around?”

               “We don’t know.”

               John nodded, head bowed in defeat.        

               “Are you going to leave?” Sherlock asked slowly, worried.

               “…No, Sherlock, I’m not,” John sighed, “But you two need to keep things in the bedroom, if you’re both staying here.”

               Sherlock sighed with relief, happy that his friend wasn’t leaving. As much as he loved James, there was something about John that couldn’t be found in anyone else. He didn’t want to lose that.

               “Should I see what James has to say about this?” he asked.

               “Whatever you want, Sherlock.”

***********************************************************************************

               James was examining Sherlock’s room when the detective came to fetch him. He had spent the duration of his wait memorizing every detail of the space. The cluttered case files, clothes strewn wildly over chairs and across the floor. He hated disorganization, but he had to admit, when Sherlock did it it looked almost like an art. He pictured clothes fluttering to the ground as the detective cast them aside in a hurry, more important matters to attend to, and smiled to himself. It was rather _adorable_ how frazzled Sherlock could get.

               He turned to face the detective as Sherlock entered the room.

               “How was it?” he asked, arms crossed.

               Sherlock shrugged, “Of course, he doesn’t like it. But he’s not leaving.”

               _Damn_ , James thought to himself. He had really wanted to soldier gone, but should have known it wouldn’t happen. Of course he and Sherlock had too deep a bond to simply _leave_ each other when the smallest obstacle crossed their past. He wondered if it was the same with Sherlock and _him_ …

               James mock examined the floor, “You need better organization, Sherly. This is out of hand.” He gave the detective a small grin.

               “You’ve mentioned it before,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “It’s irrelevant now, however. What do you plan on doing about us?”

               James nodded to himself. _Us_ … it was such a simple word, yet it carried so much weight. It seemed the ball was in his park, now.

               “You could work with me,” he suggested absentmindedly, straightening a stack of books. He knew already what the detective’s answer would be.

               “James-”

               “I know,” the criminal said quietly, “You’re too good for that, Sherly. But what would you suggest we do?”

               “Come work with me,” Sherlock whispered, “You know so much about crime. We’d be unstoppable.” The detective grabbed James’s hands from behind.

               James was caught off guard by the sudden contact, “…And what does John think of this idea?”

               “He’ll get over it,” Sherlock smirked.

               James spun on his heel, chest now against Sherlock’s, dark eyes boring into light. He was quickly formulating a plan.

               “It’s settled then.”

               When their lips meant, it was quiet, but to John, who was listening intently from the other room, it sounded like a gunshot.

%MCEPASTEBIN%%MCEPASTEBIN%


	16. Always

_“I'm a fly that's trapped_

_In a web_

_But I'm thinking that_

_My spider's dead.”_

_-Panic! At The Disco_

 

               “Sherly…” James called as he entered 221B.

               Sherlock’s head snapped up from his work, taking in the sight of his lover, who was holding a newspaper in one hand, a grin slowly spreading across his face.

               “So it’s done, then,” the detective walked over to James’s side, eyes raking over the headline story.

               “Indeed. And it seems the world’s only consulting detective is back in the spotlight.”

               “Fantastic,” Sherlock scoffed, thinking of the deerstalker. He had already seen people gathering outside the flat from the window.

               James smirked, not needing to ask what was going through the detective’s mind.

               “So they believed it, then?” John entered the conversation as he came down the stairs from his room.

               Sherlock shrugged, “The public will believe whatever they want to hear.”

               John frowned, “That’s not necessarily true,” he glared at Moriarty, “Remember what happened last time, _Richard_?”

               James rolled his eyes, “Yes, Johnny, but _this time_ it’s the truth.”

               “A _social experiment_ seems a bit far-fetched to me,” John exclaimed, incredulous.

               “Sherlock’s the type of person who would do it,” James shrugged, glancing at the detective, who was still reading the article, “And _besides_ , there was a bit of experimenting going on, wouldn’t you say?” He couldn’t stop a small smirk from appearing.

               John was disgusted. He couldn’t believe that, of all people, Sherlock had to fall for _that_. Out of everyone on the bloody planet, he fell for James Moriarty. Why couldn’t it have been Molly? Or anyone else for that matter? He couldn’t deny, there was something about James that still was completely terrifying. That streak of madness he had didn’t go unnoticed by the soldier, and the fact that he was still in touch with most of his clients and ‘employees’ (if you could even call them that) wasn’t something that John forgot about easily. Not to mention all he had done to the detective and John emotionally.

               However, the doctor realized that he would have to get used to having James around. Seeing how happy he made Sherlock made John happy, so, really, they all theoretically should be able to live together. Although, John had to admit, he was a bit jealous that Sherlock had found someone he had a connection with on the first try, while he had to go from girlfriend to girlfriend every month. Life would go on, he supposed.

               He still didn’t like the way it sounded when James spoke to Sherlock, though. It was as though the detective was his _pet_. Sherlock deserved better than that. John just hoped he knew what he was doing.

************************************************************************************

              

               “SHERLOCK!!”

               Three heads snapped in the direction of the detective’s name, to see a wide eyed, disgruntled Lestrade panting in the doorway, followed by a fussy Mrs. Hudson, a sobbing Molly, and, to Sherlock’s surprise, Anderson and Sally Donovan.

               Sherlock almost lost his composure for a moment. It was quite… touching, actually, that they all come so quickly.

               The company just stood there for a moment, taking in the sight of the detective they had thought for so long to be dead. No one spoke.

               “Sher…” Lestrade was the first to walk forward, fighting back tears. He brought a hand to the detective’s shirt, giving his shoulder a little push, as if to see if he was really there.

               “You’re…”

               “Alive, yes, thank you Lestrade.”

               “Sherlock…” Molly smiled as she whispered through her tears, hobbling to the detective and pulling him into a bear hug. She sobbed into his coat as Sherlock awkwardly looked to John for help.

               “Yes, I’m alive…” he tried again. Mrs. Hudson was standing by the door, crying tears of joy at the reunion she had waited so long to see. He feared the apartment would flood, so many people were crying.

               “A _social experiment_?” Lestrade was threatened by tears again as he said it, “ _Are you bloody mad?”_

Sherlock rolled his eyes, still trying to get away from Molly, “Yes, a social experiment. You know I am fond of experiments, so-”

               “ _So you staged your own death? I didn’t believe the papers-_ ” Lestrade gaped, “And what about you?!” he turned to Moriarty, who had been hoping not to get noticed, “What kind of an actor allows himself to be hired for such a twisted-”

               James sighed, rolling his eyes, “Did you even read the article? We’ve known each other _years_. I also thought it would be interesting, and, of course, we went through with it.”

               “What about Jim from I.T?” Molly pulled away from Sherlock, suddenly alert, eyes sharp.

               “Another disguise. I prefer James, actually,” the criminal said matter of factly.

               “Why use your real name?” Sally asked suspiciously, raising an eyebrow.

               “More realistic. And you forget, Sherly has connections in the deep dark depths of the British government. They knew about the entire thing. It was your early Christmas present from Mycroft, was it not, Sherly?”

               “That and a cigarette,” Sherlock confirmed.

               Everyone but John and James gaped at Sherlock’s easy acceptance of his nickname. They had never expected the detective would enjoy such a casual sign of affection. Lestrade gave Sherlock a surprised look.

               “Sherly…” Something clicked in Lestrade’s mind as he heard the affectionate term. He wouldn’t have believed it, but he was fairly sure that ‘James’ was wearing one of Sherlock’s shirts.

               “Only he gets to call me that. If Anderson did it, for example,” Sherlock threw a dark look in the direction of the person in question, “I may have to scalp him.”

               “So is he coming to cases now?” Sally accused, glaring at Moriarty.

               James took a step towards Sally, a dangerous glint in his eyes, “Is there a problem, darling?” He grinned brightly, but there was a quiet threat behind it. If the foolish girl tried anything, she wouldn’t have much time to brag about it.

               Donovan got the message, and while she hated being silenced like this, she decided that she should let it drop. There would be plenty of time to harass Sherlock at less significant times.

               “Of course not,” she gave a small, apologetic nod, imitating James’s fake grin, and slinked back to Anderson’s side, arms crossed in a defensive position. James’s lips formed the ghost of a smirk.

               “Did you know?” Molly piped up, questioning John, “What about Mrs. Hudson? Did she know, too?”

               “We both did. So did Mycroft,” John felt extremely guilty. Not only from forcing their friends to experience so much extra pain, but also for all of the lies they were telling them tonight. Lies that could never, ever be taken back or revealed.

               Molly gave a small nod in acknowledgement, gazing at Sherlock. She couldn’t believe this. She felt like this was all a dream. It was all a dream that she would wake up from any moment, disappointed and lonely. And there was something else. Something about Jim, or James, as he apparently preferred. She wasn’t sure what. There was just something about him that still looked like the character he had been playing. He had threatened Sally. Or, she thought he had. Perhaps she was making things up.

               Though she had to admit, she did feel a lot better about constant rejection from the detective. He had been _gay_ all along. She wondered if he and Jim had only recently hit it off, or if this had been going on a long time.

               “Sherlock, I… I thought it was my fault,” Molly’s voice quivered as she spoke, “When you asked for the supplies and the references I thought… I-” her voice cracked and she couldn’t speak past the lump in her throat anymore.

               “I had hoped that you would have put two and two together,” the detective said gently.

               “John called me after he saw you… fall,” her hands were shaking, “He told me you’d committed suicide. I’d never even… gotten to say goodbye.”

               “We didn’t know until a few days later,” John spoke up, “Mrs. Hudson and I, I mean. I would never have intentionally lied to you about something like that, Molly. Even for some dumb experiment.” He threw a mock glare in Sherlock’s direction.

               “Why the wait afterwards?” Lestrade asked indignantly, “How the hell long did you need to get proper _results_?”

               “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Sherlock huffed.

               Without warning, Molly brought her hand back and gave the detective a hard slap across the face. The noise echoed throughout the room, and there was a sharp intake of breath from Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade at the severity of the hit.

               Sherlock rubbed his cheek, “I suppose I deserved that-”

               Another slap. Molly froze afterwards, rage already fading. Her eyes grew wide at the detective cradling his cheek. James was glaring at her. Ordinary people did nothing but hurt those different than them. Just because she was too simple minded to understand Sherlock, didn’t mean that she had a right to harass him. He ignored the fact that they were blatantly lying to her.

               “I—I’m so sorry, Sherlock! I—well, actually I’m not that sorry…” she gasped.

               “Are you alright?” John asked Sherlock, fighting back the laughter that was bubbling in his stomach.

               Sherlock didn’t miss this, “Yes, John…” He frowned at Molly, surprised that such rage could come from such a generally gentle person.

               John couldn’t hold back his chuckles any longer, and soon Lestrade joined him. Mrs. Hudson’s bell like laughter followed, making their joy into a resonating melody that no orchestra could ever hope to imitate. James and Sherlock shared in a confused look as Molly contributed a smile to John and Lestrade’s madness.

               “If we buy you all dinner tonight,” John gasped, “If we buy you all dinner, will you stop beating up Sherlock?”

               “We?” Sherlock frowned. He didn’t want to pay for anything for Anderson or Sally.

               James rolled his eyes, “Yes, _we_ ,” he mumbled to Sherlock, “I’ll pay for the pricks if you don’t want to.”

               Sherlock’s eyes bored into James’s for a moment and they shared an intense gaze for a moment.

               Finally, Sherlock broke the mood, “Alright. Anderson, you’re to sit as far from me as possible.”

               “We should keep the two lovebirds away from each other as well,” Lestrade said, looking at Sherlock and Moriarty, “If I see you two giving each other eyes like that at the table I don’t think I’ll have much of an appetite.”

               “Lovebirds?” James frowned as he mumbled the word to himself. He didn’t like the sound of that. He had been _trying_ not to be too obvious…

               “Give us a few minutes to get ready and we’ll meet you all at Angelo’s in a half hour,” John announced. Sally led Anderson out without another word.

               “Hopefully, they won’t show up,” Lestrade gave John an apologetic look as he turned to leave, gesturing to Anderson and Donovan, “Welcome back, Sherlock.” The detective nodded at him as he left.

               “Yes, I’d better go and fix my makeup,” Mrs. Hudson said, “I’ll see you in a bit, dears.” She smiled at John and Sherlock, then was out the door, leaving Molly as the only visitor left.

               “Well… welcome back, I suppose,” she said quietly, “I’ll see you all in a bit.” Giving Sherlock a soft smile, she turned to leave.

               “Molly,” John called after her, giving Sherlock a look that said ‘ _Tell her something nice’_.

               “Yes?”

               John nudged the detective in encouragement.

               “…Thank you,” Sherlock finally said. He meant it. Molly would never know that she’d done more than assisting in an ‘experiment’; she’d saved Sherlock’s life. He would be dead if it wasn’t for her.

               “You’re welcome…. Why am I being thanked?”

               Sherlock paused, unsure how to word it for her, “I don’t think you realize… how we all need you.”

               “Me?” she smiled sheepishly, shaking her head, “Oh, Sherlock you don’t need me! I mean, you’re such a genius, you-”

               “No, you don’t understand,” Sherlock was frustrated that he would never be able to tell her the whole truth, but it had to be this way, so he settled for something vague, “There wouldn’t be a… a genius if it wasn’t for you.”

               “What does that mean?” she cocked her head to the side in confusion.

               James gave Sherlock a warning glance, “Nothing,” the detective gave his trademark closed lips smile, “See you soon.”

               “Yes, see you!” Molly pondered the detective’s words as she left 221B, tossing them around in her mind. She never really figured out what he had meant that day, but the memory of his baritone voice thanking her with such sincerity was something she’d never forget.

*************************************************************************************

              

               “She’s a strange one,” James narrowed his eyes, now that the three of them were alone in the flat. Sherlock had run to his room to quickly change, and the criminal and John were left alone in the main room together. Both refused to look at one another.

               “She’s not stupid, you mean,” John glared at Moriarty. He couldn’t tell if being called strange by James Moriarty was a compliment or not, but he knew that Molly deserved better treatment than she got by most people. Especially Moriarty. He shuddered to think they had once _dated_.

               “Not as stupid as I initially perceived,” James admitted, “Though she still is painfully ordinary.”

               John nodded, not in agreement, but just as a way of taking in Jim’s madness, as though it were a distinctive piece in an art show, “Am I ordinary?” he asked.

               James paused, not sure how honest he should be. If they got into another row, it would make his life in 221B very difficult. Though he had always been on the defensive for most of his life, so it wouldn’t be too difficult to get back into the rhythm.

               “…Yes,” he finally said.

               John nodded again, “What makes someone ‘ordinary’?” He tried to imitate his therapist’s monotonous tone, and James noticed it immediately.       

               He chuckled menacingly, “Oh, I see what you’re doing, Johnny.” He smiled to himself, studying his hands.

               “What am I doing?” John challenged, still forcing himself to fake a friendly tone. He finally turned to face James.     

               “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?” the criminal’s voice was dangerously light, and his eyes flicked up to John’s, “Trying to see what my angle is in all this. You want to know if I really _care_ about Sherlock.”

               “That would be nice information to have, yes,” John encouraged sarcastically.

               James took a step towards John, and the doctor took in how thin the criminal was built. His dark eyes, his smooth gait. John didn’t need Sherlock’s skills of deduction to know that this was an intelligent man. It was strange, hearing someone so inhuman breathe in the now silent flat.

               “Do _you_ care about Sherlock?” James finally asked.

               “What does that have anything to do with this?”

               “I said, do you care about Sherlock? Johnny, I know you’re not deaf,” James’s voice was darkening by the minute.

               “Of course I care about Sherlock. I care about a lot of people,” John wasn’t sure that an emotion like caring was familiar to someone like James.

               “I don’t care about the others,” James said dismissively, “I just care about Sherlock. Would you say that you love him?”

               “…In a platonic way, yes. He’s my best friend, and I don’t know what I would do without him,” John explained.

               “Ah, but is love ever _really_ platonic, John? Is that real?”

               “I’m starting to question if you’re real.”

               James grinned, and it sent shivers down John’s spine, “I like the way you think, Johnny. I question it myself sometimes. But honestly now, what _is_ real?”

               John answered without hesitation, “People.”

               “People?” James scoffed, “How dreadfully _ordinary_ , John. We humans create our own realities. We have the power to determine what is and isn’t real, and you settle for merely accepting what is right in front of you?”

               John shook his head, “You’re talking nonsense.”

               James only grinned, showing off his teeth. John was reminded of a crocodile. There was something bothering John; something nagging in the back of his mind, and he decided now was as good a time as ever to say something.

               “Did one of your henchmen really try to stab Sherlock?” he asked.

               James’s face was unreadable, and for some reason, that made John feel even worse. Of course the criminal should have known that he wasn’t stupid enough to believe that, but what did it matter? Sherlock was all that mattered now, and he wasn’t going to let anything take that away from him. A heavy silence filled the room, and as John studied the criminal, waiting for a response, he felt as though he was being suffocated.

               “Let me be very clear, John Watson,” James began, his eyes and voice like ice, “If you try to take Sherlock Holmes from me,” he took a step towards the doctor, and, putting a hand on his shoulder, whispered into John’s ear, “I will use your bones as toothpicks.”

*************************************************************************************

              

               Sherlock was slipping a new shirt on when James entered his room, without knocking. He took in the sight of the detective with a pleased look.

               “Most people knock,” the detective repeated his words from one of their older meetings, before the fall.

               James was amused by the reference, “I’m not most people.” Sherlock scoffed.

               “I suppose not,” he said.

               “Mycroft called you today, didn’t he?” James was tired of the banter.

               “He’s not pleased he had to allow your record to be cleaned. People ask questions.”

               “Darling, my record was already ‘clean’. It’s just _official_ , now.”

               Sherlock scoffed, still not fully trusting that his brother would follow through on his promise, “He wants a favor in return.”

               “Oh? What is that?”

               “He won’t tell me. I’m guessing it’s a case.”

               “Lovely. We won’t be bored then, will we? Though I suppose with you it is difficult to be bored with anything.”

               “Cute.”

               “You know you love me,” James wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck gazing up at the detective and breathing in his cologne.

               Sherlock sighed, “I don’t have much of a choice.” He was only half joking. His new level of care for James disturbed even him sometimes. He trusted the criminal with his life, even while knowing that it was completely and utterly irrational, given their history. Sherlock couldn’t help it. He didn’t know _how_ their relationship would work, given that James was still managing his web, though he supposed he might as well enjoy it. The detective didn’t think he would ever find someone like James again, or that he wanted to.

               “Neither do I,” James sighed, resting his head on the detective’s chest.

               Sherlock was still confused when he looked at James. How could someone so ruthless; so cold, be so _wonderful_ at the same time? Was it because they were, in fact, the same person? Did Sherlock have that within him, too? He wasn’t sure. He also wasn’t sure if it bothered him or not. All he knew was that, to him at least, the spider that was James Moriarty was dead, replaced with something new. Something that had previously been unknown to Sherlock. A soul mate? Was that making the leap too quickly?

               The detective gazed down into James’s dark eyes softly, marveling that he had him all to himself. What he had done to deserve James, he would never know. Though really, he couldn’t help loving him. Perhaps that was the most terrifying thing about this. This was a different sort of fall from the first time; a longer one, perhaps without a bottom, and this time, he wouldn’t be alone.

               This time, he was taking James down with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...


End file.
